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NUGjE CANORiE. 



POEMS 

BY 

CHARLES LLOYD, 

AUTHOR OF " EDMUND OLIVER," " ISABEL," 
AND TRANSLATOR OF ALFIERI. 

THIRD EDITION, 

WITH ADDITIONS. 



Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla chiede. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR J. AND A. ARCH, CORNHILL. 
1819- 






J. M'Creery, Printer, 
Black-Horse-Court, London. 



DEDICATORY SONNET 

TO SOPHIA. 

Once we had joys in common: — common woes 
Have lately been our portion; Friend, once 
loved ! 
And, still as much loved as 'mid sorrow's throes 

Tis possible to move, or to be moved. 
Faithless I'm not, because no word that glows, 
No look that cheers, accost a friend approved ; 
Love's language lies in more profound repose 
Than that of death, since Hope has been re- 
mov'd 
From my soul's dreams ! But could'st thou pierce 
my heart, 
And see the tender est thought it doth enshrme, 
'Tis, should myself and sorrow ever part, 

Mine eyes shall then tell thee wlien sought by 
thine, 
While blest tears gush, like children's, without 
art, 
" These had not flowed, wert thou again not 
miner 

CHARLES LLOYD. 

London, 6th September, 1819. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



ABOUT one third part of the Poems contained 
in this Volume is selected from a larger collection 
of the Author's productions, which has gone 
through two former editions : the pieces included 
in this part will be distinguished in the Index, 
from those which are now printed for the first 
time, by being marked with an asterisk. These 
latter ones have been written at various times, 
and on various occasions, since the year 1799. 

The latter part of this Volume will be devoted 
to tales, selected from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, 
and intended as a specimen of a translation of 
that work from the Latin, completed by the 
Author. 



PREFACE, 



In almost every department of the Belles Lettres 
we are apt to confound our own taste with ab- 
stract perfection. We are apt to pass a judg- 
ment originating from a standard formed in our 
own minds, without attending to the motive 
which seems to have actuated the Author. la 
judging of poetry, nothing is more common than 
this. — One man, exclusively fond of smooth and 
artificial versification, will almost intuitively con- 
demn a style less refined, or less flowing, than 
his judgment had conceived as necessary to ex- 
celleace ; while, on the other hand, another at- 



Till PREFACE. 

tached to simple and wild expressions of feeling, 
will almost as instinctively anathematize his 
more polished and refined competitor. It is in 
vain to seek for an invariable rule of excellence 
in matters of taste. The best guide as to merit 
is experience with regard to what has, and what 
has not, acted pleasurably on the minds of men. 
Whatever pleases generally, though not sanction- 
ed by any rule, must have merit : — whatever ge- 
nerally disgusts, or at least is received with uni- 
versal apathy, however it may accord with theo- 
retical systems, must be essentially defective. 

The poetical character, though marked by 
some general features ; though each individual 
possessing it belongs to one family, has its per- 
sonal and specific distinctions. The poet may 
be sublime, or fanciful; wild, or correct; pro- 
found, or energetic ; involved, or easy ; insi- 
nuating, or simple; he may possess all these 
characters with advantage; and the possession 



PREFACE. IX 

©f the one shall not in the least derogate from 
the excellence or dignity of the other. The 
poetic character has not only its differences, but 
it has also its ranks and subordinate degrees. 
The epic bard certainly proposes to himself a 
task more arduous and exalted than those of all 
his competitors for poetic fame. Genius and 
Learning ; Imagination to conceive character, 
and to embody abstract qualities in high and 
lofty personification ; Intelligence to invigorate 
and inform the reason ; Patience to describe in 
detail; Eloquence to excite in declamation; 
Fancy to delight with sportiveness, and elabo- 
rate Information seriously to improve ; are all 
necessary to the completion of the Epic Poet. 
He must be gentle and majestic; winning and 
sublime ; various, yet pursuing one end ; rich 
and dignified ; now delighting with profusion of 
beauty, and now raising the soul with terrific 
grandeur. 



X PREFACE. 

The accurate conception of character, and 
the force and precision necessary to each por- 
traiture ; a discriminating insight with regard to 
the involved mazes of the passions ; a selection 
of thoughts and words which assist action, and 
give a bodily shape and presence to intellectual 
conceptions ; all these qualities, necessary to 
the dramatic poet, render his toil little less ardu- 
ous than that of the writer who is a competitor 
for epic excellence. The dramatic writer will 
therefore claim the second niche in the temple of 
poetic fame. 

Of poetical composition, the third in rank is 
the Ode. The frequent suddenness of transition, 
the vividness of imagery, the variety and lofti- 
ness of personification, and the impetuosity and 
splendour of thought and feeling, necessary to 
its construction, render it wbrthy of a high sta- 
tion in the gradation of poetic precedence. After 



PREFACE. XI 

the Ode, may we not place moral or didactic 
poetry ? Descriptive poetry associating Nature's 
best feelings with natural objects ? Playful 
poetry, the child of Fancy? And last of all, sen- 
timental poetry, the child of Sorrow ? 

Most persons talk of poetry as if it were 
merely intended to amuse a vacant hour : but if 
the Author be justified in affirming, that to feel 
rightly is of more importance than even to think 
wisely, since we more often act from impulse 
than from thought, it will be found that poetry 
holds no contemptible place in the scale of moral 
causes. 

Man, originally, is merely a creature of appe- 
tites: even with considerable cultivation, we can 
only bring the senses to a certain niceness, by 
associating them with objects of virtuous refine- 
ment ; we cannot, it is in vain to attempt it — we 
cannot produce out of them a mind which inva~ 



XU PREFACE. 

riably acts as an umpire over their claims, and 
despises, or sets at nought, their seductions. — 
Whatever, therefore, draws the senses to the 
side of virtue, associates natural impulses with 
the " better mind," is of high value in civilized 
life. Many persons, unthinkingly, are ready to 
say — what is the use of poetry? There is not 
any information contained in it. To such per- 
sons the Author would make the following reply. 
Is it of any use to have thy brute appetites 
chastened to exalted delight? To connect ideal 
charms with all the visible creation ? To learn 
to trace a moral character, and feel a taste ex- 
cited, and a passion without price gratified, by 
every object of pure beauty that presents itself? 
Is it of importance for minds of sensibility to be 
led from the world of Art, which is often full of 
disappointment, and disease, and discontent, to 
the more simple, and more noble, and more 
beautiful world of Nature, which is full of beauty, 
and peace, and harmony ? Is it of importance 



PREFACE. Xlll 

to be rather independent and happy in thy feel- 
ings than dependent and miserable? Ask thy 
heart these questions, and thou wilt have disco- 
vered how far the poetic gift is excellent, holy, 
and sublime. 

In this panegyric on Poetry, every description 
of it is excluded by the Author, which seduces 
the mind and the heart to the senses; of that 
poetry, which, by presenting pure and blameless 
objects to the former, either keeps in just sub- 
serviency, or elevates the latter to them, he is 
alone the advocate. 

Poetry is the language of the heart and ima- 
gination : and whatever in feeling refines, or ani- 
mates the heart, or in imagination fires and 
exalts the mind, is a proper object for poetry. 
It is a language, too, which brings images from 
all the world of sense ; it delights itself in body- 
ing forth ideal shapes, and loves all new and 



XIV PREFACE. 

fanciful combinations of, and associations with, 
sensible objects. It is not exactly, as a modern 
author has defined it to be, the language of the 
eye : since, were the accuracy of representing 
visible objects alone attended to, and not any 
feelings or phantasies engrafted on them, it would 
sink into vapid description : into description, 
which must yield all pretensions to equality with 
the sister art of Painting. 

Dr. Darwin defines poetry to be the language 
t)f the eye. He has succeeded, because, as an 
individual, he has a genius for the poetry com- 
prised in that definition ; but were all other 
poetry excluded, a race of meagre imitators 
would start up, and at last poetry herself would 
abandon her votaries as the only persons igno- 
rant of her charms. There would scarcely be 
any end to definitions in any art, or subject of 
taste, were all men thus to theorize on their own 
genius. A landscape painter might as well de- 



PREFACE. XV 

fine painting to be the reprehension of rural 
scenery, as the poetical admirer of visible ob- 
jects " poetry the language of the eye." 

How is the eye addressed in the lofty hymns* 
of the Old Testament, on which Milton professes 
to have formed his genius. In short, the es- 
sence of poetic excellence seems frequently to 
consist in avoiding every thing like accurate de- 
scription ; and after carefully keeping in the back 
ground all sources of disgust, by happily seizing 
on one idea necessarily involving a crowd of 
inferior associations, to raise the fancy, and 
awaken the mind to a delightful though inde- 
finable tumult. The best epithets in poetry are 
often those the least determinate, and which 

* u But those frequent songs throughout the law and 
the prophets beyond all these, not in their divine argu- 
ment alone, but in the very critical art of composition, 
may be easily made appear, over all kinds of lyrick poe- 
try, to be incomparable." — Milton's Prose Works. 






XVI PREFACE. 

leave the greatest scope for the imagination. It 
is true, that to peruse such poetry with advan- 
tage, the reader should partake of the poetical 
conception of the author. How would our Milton 
or Shakspeare fare, if the definition were admitted 
that " poetry is the language of the eye V Is 
not the author warranted, therefore, in the more 
loose and comprehensive one, that it is the lan- 
guage of the heart and imagination ? 

To conclude, — the following trifles have met 
with encouragement from those who are pleased 
with a delineation of the feelings of human na- 
ture. They do not affect the excellence of the 
higher orders of poetry ; they are only the effu- 
sions of sentiment, to which, in the course of this 
address, the author has assigned the lowest 
niche in the temple of poetic fame: — and he 
trusts that he shall not incur the stigma of pre- 
sumption in once more introducing them, toge- 



PREFACE. XV11 

ther with some younger births of the same family, 
hitherto unintroduced to the notice of the public, 
since high pretension can alone justify severe 
reproof. 

London, Aug. 29, 1819. 






CONTENTS. 



N. B, — The Poems marked thus *, have appeared in 
former Editions ; the others are now for the first time 
printed. 



Pag© 

* A Poetical Effusion written after a Journey into 

North Wales . 1 

* Ode to Derwentwater, Cumberland • 5 

* Elegy on leaving Exmouth 11 

* The Melancholy Man 13 

*' Lines on the Death of an Infant ....,...., 20 

* Stanzas written by Ulswater, Cumberland 23 

* Address to the Genius of Shakspeare 25 

* Christmas, A Poem 28 

The Woodman 9 A Ballad 34 

* Lines. 42 

* London 48 

* Lines to Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin 54 

* Lines to a Young- Man attached to the Sports of the 

Field 59 

* Lines to a Young Man, fyc 63 



XX CONTENTS. 

Page 

* Lines suggested by the Fast, appointed for Wednesday, 

February 27, 1799 66 

* Lines to a Brother and Sister 74 

Lines to Robert Southey, Esq 80 

Lines written to April, 1800 85 

Lines to the Scenery of Cumberland and Westmore- 
land 92 

Lines to the Sabbath * 100 

Lines written in Retirement, in a Mountainous Court- 

try 106 

Lines written 1 9th August, 1807 112 

Lines to an Hour-Glass, addressed to Miss H 

W 114 

Lines on a Youth self -interred on Skidd aw 117 

Lines written 29th July, 1808 120 

Lines to my Children 122 

Stanzas. — Let the Reader determine their Title 127 

Poems on the Death ofPriscilla Farmer 143 

* Introductory Sonnet, by Mr. Coleridge 145 

* Dedicatory Lines to the Author's Brother 147 

* Sonnet 1 149 

* Sonnet 2 150 

* Sonnet 3. — Written at the Hotieells, near Bristol .... 151 

* Sonnet 4 152 

* Sonnet 5 153 

* Sonnet 6 154 

* Sonnet 7 155 

* Sonnet 8 156 

* Sonnet 9 157 

* Sonnet 10 158 



CONTENTS. xxi 

Page 

* Sonnet 11 159 

* Lines written on a Friday 160 

Introduction to the Miscellaneous Sonnets 167 

* Sonnet 1. — To Craig- Millar Castle 175 

* Sonnet 2.— To Scotland 176 

* Sonnet 3. — To November 177 

* Sonnet 4 178 

* Sonnet 5 179 

* Sonnet 6 180 

* Sonnet 7 ...,..* 181 

* Sonnet 8 . 182 

Sonnet 9. — On seeing the Moon rise y among Clouds 

swiftly driven by the Wind, from behind a Hill 

across Ulswater 183 

Sonnet 10.— To a Sister 184 

Sonnet 11. — To the same 185 

Sonnet 12. — To the same 186 

Sonnet 13. — To the same 187 

Sonnet 14. — To the same 188 

Sonnet 15. — To the same 189 

Sonnet 16. — To the same 190 

Sonnet 17. — To the same 191 

Sonnet 18. — Inserted in a Novel written by the Author, 

printed, but not published, called " Isabel" 192 

Sonnet 19 193 

Sonnet 20 194 

Sonnet 21 195 

Sonnet 22. — Written early in the Morning, soon after 
the Birth of my third Child, and inscribed to my 

Mother, who was present on the occasion 196 



XX11 CONTENTS. 

Page 

Sonnet 23 197 

Sonnet 24 198 

Sonnet 25.— To my Mother 199 

Sonnet 26. — Storm at Night, in a mountainous Country 200 

Sonnet 27. — Sketch of a Mountain Cottage 202 

Sonnet 28 203 

Sonnet 29. — Description of a Spring Hail Stoi % m in a 

mountainous Country . 204 

Sonnet SO. — To Sophia, written previous to a Journey 
to a Place very distant from that of our Residence . 205 

Sonnet 31.— To Sophia 206 

Sonnet 32.— To Miss W 207 

Sonnet 33.— From Petrarch 208 

Sonnet 34. 209 

Sonnet 35. — From Petrarch 210 

Sonnet 36.— From Petrarch 211 

Sonnet 37.— To Solitude , 212 

Sonnet 38.— To Solitude 213 

Sonnet 39.— To Solitude 214 

Sonnet 40. — Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, 

printed, but not published, called " Isabel" 215 

Sonnet 41 216 

Sonnet 42 217 

Sonnet 43.— Inserted in a Novel, printed, but not pub- 
lished, called li Isabel" 218 

Sonnet 44 219 

Sonnet 45 220 

Sonnet 46 221 

Sonnet 47 222 

Sonnet 48. 2*3 





CONTENTS. xxiii 

Page 
Sonnet 49. — Written in the Character of St.; Preux 224 

Sonnet 50 226 

Sonnet 51.— To Miss W 227 

Sonnet 52.— To the same 228 

Sonnet 53. — To Her who will understand this and the 

two preceding ones 229 

Sonnet 54. — Written after a Walk by Rydal Water . 230 

Sonnet 55. — Written after seeing Rydal Lake 231 

Sonnet 56 232 

Sonnet 57. — Inserted in a Novel, written by the Au- 
thor, called " Isabel" 233 

Sonnet 58. — To Farm * 234 

Sonnet 59 b 2o6 

Sonnet 60 237 

Sonnet 61 . . 238 

Sonnet 62. — On the Death of Robert Lloyd 239 

Sonnet 63. — On the same 240 

Sonnet 64. — On the same 241 

Sonnet 65. — On the same 243 

Sonnet 66 —On the Death of Thomas Lloyd 244 

Advertisement e 245 

Sonnet 1. — Metaphysical Sonnet 247 

* Sonnet 2. — To a Primrose 248 

* Sonnet 3. — To the River Emont 249 

* Sonnet 4. — To Loch Lomond 250 

* Sonnet 5.— To the Sabbath 251 

Sonnet 6. — To a Mendicant 252 

* The Dead Friend 253 

**uvertisement to the Translations 259 



XXIV CONTENTS. 

Page 

Death of Hercules 263 

Ceyx and Alcyone 277 

Death of Achilles SOS 

Contest of Ajax and Ulysses for the Arms of Achilles. . 306 



THE Author thinks it but fdir as a preliminary to the following 
list of Errata, to state, that he fears he must take to himself the blame 
due to many of the errors ; and the only apology he can make for 
such apparent negligence, is, that during the time when the sheets 
went to the press, he was invariably in a state of ill-health, and ofteu 
almost unable to attend to any process that required minute accu- 
racy, 

ERRATA. 

Page 68, line 22, for perpetual read perpetuated. 

69, beginning of line 2, for and read a. 

6g, line 10, for coronet read coronal. 

72, lastliue, after the word " promise," omit the colon. 

85, for quando read quandoque. 

85, for 4th Sat. read Sat. 4. 

110, line \2,for birth read birch. 
122, for vestrorum read vestrum. 

122, l t for I'll read I. 

128, 13, for drink read drank. 

129, 10, for ancient read secret. 
136, Note, for interim i read interim is. 
l5i, 6, for dream read dreamed. 
153, 11, for more read morn. 



POEMS. 



A POETICAL EFFUSION, 

WRITTEN AFTER A JOURNEY INTO NORTH 
WALES. 



February, 1794. 
Ye Powers unseen, whose pure aerial forms 
Hover on Cambria's awful mountains hoar ! 
Who breathe your fury in her raging storms, 
And join your deep yells to the tempest's 

roar, 
Assist my visionary soul to soar 
Once more enraptur'd o'er your prospects drear ; 
Let each sensation warm my heart once more, 
That wont to prompt th' enthusiastic tear, 

And raise my restless soul when your wild 
scenes were near ! 

B 



2 A POETICAL EFFUSION. 

Sure ye who viewless range those prospects blest, 
And swiftly glance o'er many a heath-clad hill — 

Sure ye oft animate the glowing breast, 
And often warm with many a mystic thrill 
The pure poetic fancy ! Oh ! deign still 

Those high, those speechless pleasures to renew, 
Let Memory trace each scene with faithful 
skill, 

And let Imagination's fervour true, 

With no dim tints recal each magic mountain- 
view. 

In all the tedious intercourse of life, 

Say, is there aught of bliss sublime and high ? 
Amid the fluttering world's unmeaning strife, 

Say, is there aught to sooth or satisfy 

The soul aspiring to her kindred sky ? 

No ! — Nature, thou alone canst boast the power 

To reillume the melancholy eye — 
Cheer the dejection of the restless hour, 
Or bid advent'rous thought to trackless regions 
tower. 

If thou, perchance, hast ever felt the smart 
Of unrequited friendship, go and soothe, 

In independence wild, thy wearied heart ! 

The charm of solitary pleasures prove, 



A POETICAL EFFUSION. 3 

Ye who the world's cold scorn may sometimes 
move 
To curse mankind ! — and ye that doubt and fear, 
Oh! see how Nature beams with boundless 
love ! — 
The God of Nature shall instruct you there, 
All rapture to the heart, all music to the ear. 

And you ye Cambrian hills and valleys sweet, — 

You gave such pleasure to a wearied mind, 
You fill'd a heart, which thought all joy deceit, 

With unfeign'd rapture, and with peace refin'd. 

Thanks to your charms and glories unconfin'd ! 
Thanks to that God who gave a heart to feel ! 

And may your rude scenes with an influence 
kind 
Continue long the wound of care to heal, 
And warm afresh with joy, Affliction's bosom 
chill! 

And you, ye shadowy spirits, that unseen 

All wildly glance those fabled scenes among, 
Whose solemn voices, oft Night's conscious 
queen 
Salute with murmur sweet, and mystic song : 
B 2 



4 A POETICAL EFFUSION. 

May you for him that raptur'd roves along, 
Or climbs some rock whose fork'd peak cleave* 
the sky, 
If chance the powers of verse to him belong, 
Bid dreams of hallowed import flutter by, 
And purge from mortal film, his half-enlighten'd 
eye! 



ODE 

TO DERWENTWATER, CUMBERLAND. 



August, 1794. 
Wild scenes ! tho' absent from my sight, 

Remembrance often views your wakeful 
charm : 
She cherishes with fond delight 

The enthusiastic thrill, the feeling warm, 
The glow poetic, and the wild alarm, 
That ever wait, enchanting scenes ! on you. 
She often sees your hanging wood 
Wave on the mountain's brow, 
And kens your mild reflecting flood 
Sleep in the vale below, 
With feelings keenly true ; — 



6 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 

She views the mountain torrent white with foam, 
As its big mass darts wildly from on high ; 
While conscious shades that shed an awful 
gloom, 
From the rude glare of Day's unwelcome eye 
Shroud many a fairy form that loves to hover 
nigh. 
Majestic views ! 
What trembling effort of my votive muse, 

May dare to hail 
Shades where Sublimity shall ever 
dwell? 
Where oft She points the melancholy rock, 

To make it frown more dread ; 
And bids the beetling crag more proudly mock 
The embrio storm that hovers round its 
head. 
While She, of rapturous thought the Magic Queen, 

Wakes every ruder grace, 
Beauty, more lovely in an awful scene, 

Adorns of nature the expressive face 
With many a sweeter charm, 
And hues divinely warm,- — 
Bids the torrent as it flows 
In the vale below repose, 



ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 7 

Bids the glowing car of day 
Shed a soft attemper'd ray, 
Gives the groves a fresher green 
Where mild zephyr sails serene. 
Beauty calms the liquid lake, 
And ever bids it sweetly take 
The margin rock, and each time-hallow'd 

wood, 
Each mountain wildly high, sublimely rude, 
With soft reflected grace in its reposing flood. 

Methinks I see in native charm attir'd 

All the bright forms of Keswick's happy vale : 
Methinks I see the scene, which oft inspir'd 
The glow of Genius, and the Muses' tale. 
Derwent ! I view thy lake of clearest glass, 

Which Nature decks in beauty all thine own — 
The liquid lustre of its level face 

Where the gay pinnace glitters to the sun. 
" I feel the balmy gales that blow," 

Its surface brightly clear along ; 
And now I hear them murmur low, 

The lightly trembling woods among. 
The cluster'd isles that scarcely peep 
From the blue bosom of the deep, 






8 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 

Which loves their grassy sides to lave, 
Now meet excursive Fancy's eye, 
And with a sweet diversity 

Break the wide level of the rippling 
wave. 
Ah ! as thy varying scene I mark, 
What cloud-clad rocks, what mountains huge 

appear : 
Here Wallow frowns, with Skiddaw in its 
rear, 
A vast stupendous mass ! and, hark ! 
Methinks I seem in Fancy's dream to hear 
A deep majestic sound 
From yon rude rocks rebound, 
Where wild woods ever wave 'mid fragments 
drear. 
On breezes borne, that fan the day, 
Now louder, and now louder roars 
The hollow sound on Keswic's shores, 

As on I urge my way. 

*Till led by Fancy to the impending shade, 

O'ercanopied by melancholy rocks, 
Lodore is seen to thunder thro' the glade, 
And from the appalling steep with fearful 
shocks 



ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 9 

To urge the fragment thro' the opening air, 
Big with impending fate and deep despair 
To Him, the unlucky wight, that wont to wander 
near. 

Tremendous flood ! 
Which flingst thy foam on many a fragment 
rude; 

And bid'st the forest quake 
And listening nature shake, 
As down thou tumbles! 'mid the humid wood. 
For thee, her showers may summer send, 

And still replenish every spring ! 

For thee, the lone Enthusiast's friend 

Her wildest storms may winter bring ! 

May many a mountain torrent mix with thine, 

And seek.thy favourite haunt, sublimity divine ! 

What are the graces of the polish'd scene 

Where the wild form of Nature's sought in vain, 
Where artificial elegance is seen 

A supplement to Beauty's beamy train ! 
What, when compar'd to Lodore's shade ! 

Here wanton Nature's boundless grace, 
Fancy, sweet visionary maid, 

Is often fondly seen to trace. 



10 ODE TO DERWENTWATER. 

Here all the viewless forms that still 

Awake the enthusiastic thrill ; 

Here fairy phantoms that dispense 

Rapture to sublimated sense, 

Impart their highest influence 

There, Dulness leaning on some statue near 
(Her emblem meet) wears out the insipid year, 
And talks of Nature with an ideot joy 
While Nature, absent maid, ne'er blest her va- 
cant eye. 



ELEGY 



ON LEAVING EXMOUTH. 



August, 1794. 
Jarewel, sweet scenes familiar to mine eyes, 

Oft have I mark'd you with a transport blest ; 
Tho' now no more for me your charms shall rise, 

Or give my soul a transitory rest. 

Farewel, thou blue and ever restless main, 
On whose clear breast yon bright orb sheds 
his ray ; 

While from the vault above with boundless reign, 
He proudly flames, the exulting Lord of day. 

Farewel, ye little skiffs that calmly scud 

With trembling white sail to each zephyr true 

Along the wide and undulating flood ; 
Sweet fairy objects of a fairy view ! 



12 ELEGY. 

And you, ye proud majestic ships, that glide 
With swelling canvas, and with pennants gay, 

Stately and slow along the obedient tide, 
No more for me ye plow your wat'ry way 1 

Farewel, the glowing sigh, the swelling thought, 
The throb mysterious, and the tear so sweet ; 

Farewel, the joys that inspiration brought, 
And Nature wild, in Solitude's retreat. 

I haste, alas ! from this unruffled main, 

I haste from, shores where sighs the placid 
wave, 

To scenes of moral misery and pain, 

The billowy storms of busy life to brave. 

Feelings of peace, ye melting thoughts, I go, 
I go, with you to never more sojourn ! 

Day-dreams of sweet imaginary woe, 
I quit your charms realities to mourn ! 



THE 

MELANCHOLY MAN. 



1795. 
I. 

What means this tumult of thy soul — 

Those feelings words could ne'er define — 
Those languid eyes that vacant roll — 
Those cherish'd thoughts that inly pine ? 
Why dost thou wildly love to stray 
Where dimly gleams the doubtful day, 
And all-unconscious muse with pensive pace ? 
Or why in lorn dejected mood 
Bend o'er the melancholy flood, 
And with unmeaning gaze the heedless current 
trace ? 

II. 

Ah ! why, thou poor, distracted thing ! 

Those muttered accents, broken, low ; 
Those visionary tears that spring 
From unintelligible woe ? 



14 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 

Why does the rose that deck'd thy cheek 
Pal'd o'er with care, no more bespeak 

The lovely flush of life's luxuriant morn ? 

Or o'er thy shrunk, ambiguous face, 
Bereft of youth's untutor'd grace, 

Thy locks all wildly hang, neglected and forlorn? 

III. 

Should eve's meek star with paly eye 

Peep lonely o'er the mountain's head, 
While on the blue translucent sky 

Some feathery clouds are lightly spread ; 
Why wilt thou seek the rushy heath, 
And listen as the gale's low breath 
Murmurs forlorn the moss-clad waste along ? 
When from the white-thorn's blossom'd spray 
The red-breast sings his latest lay, 
Why with bent downcast brows stand list'ning 
to the song ? 

IV. 

Why does the tear unbidden start, 

And why those sighs that wildly swell? 

Why flutters thy tumultuous heart, 
Thy looks unspoken feelings tell, 



THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 15 

If chance beneath thy devious feet 
Thou seest the lover's last retreat, 

The cold and unblest grave of pale despair ? 
Why dost thou drop a feeling tear 
Upon the flowret lurking near, 

And bid it ever droop, a meek memento, there? 

V. 

Why with unwonted longings yearn 
O'er this, the last resource of man, 

And with mysterious envy turn 
Thy only shelter, Worth ! to scan ? 
Why dost thou, to Affliction true, 
When April sheds her chilly dew, 

Bend o'er the spot, ere peeps the weeping day ? 
When Eve's unrealizing gleam 
Confounds the gaze in visual dream, 

Why dost thou love to hear the curfew die away ? 

VI. 

Where (monument of past delight, 

And truer type of joy's brief reign) 
The Ruin gleams, and dim Affright 
Shivers the homeward-plodding swain ; 
Why dost thou love alone to tread , 
Fragments with ivy overspread, 



16 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 

And mark the grey-tower half enshrin'd in trees \ 
Or listen, as in vaults beneath 
From viewless forms deep murmurs 
breathe, 

And sighs on mossy walls the melancholy breeze? 

VII. 

Why dost thou loiter on the beach 

Where rippling dies the bright-blue wave, 
And often with fantastic speech 
To the deaf ocean idly rave ? 

Why dost thou bid the billow bear 
Thy frame unnerv'd by fancied care 
To realms more pure, where genial souls inspire? 
Why dost thou view the litfle skiff, 
Which flutters near the frowning cliff, 
With many an " aching wish" and impotent de- 
sire? 

VIII. 

When in the crowded walks of men, 

'Mid festive scenes thou'rt doom'd to mix, 
Why on some distant lonely glen 
Thine ill-attuned spirit fix ? 

Why dost thou spurn alluring mirth, 
And bend unconscious to the earth, 



THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 17 

Mute and unknowing, absent and unknown ? 
Why dost thou frown on every sport, 
And curse indignant those that court 

The motley phantom Joy, on Folly's tinsel throne? 

IX. 

And wherefore, when the trump of fame 

Inflames the soul to glory's deed, 
Such deed with cynic sternness blame, 
And quaintly mock th' ephemeral meed ? 
Why now with misanthropic eye 
The springs of action keenly try 
Through the pure medium of eternal truth ? 
Now rais'd above this nether sphere 
A mere spectator, judge severe, 
Nor chill'd by fears of age, nor warm'd by hopes 
of youth ? 

X. 

Is it because each tie is gone 

That bound thee to this fragile state ? 
Because thou'rt left forlorn, alone, 
No friend to love !— no foe to hate ? 
Has keen affection often brought 
The pleasures of a tender thought, 
c 



18 THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 

And is such thought for ever now bereft 1 
Say, hast thou felt an ardent flame 
Which not eternity could tame, 

And are its joys expir'd, and all its vigour 
left? 

XL 

Has fancy to thy madden'd gaze 

Displayed th' elysian dells of bliss ? 
Say, did her secret wonders raise 
A wish for happier worlds than this ? 
And is the wanton faery flown, 
And left thee chill'd to conscious stone, 
At this cold prospect of unmeaning care ? 
And is Hope's lustre fled afar, 
Nor haply from her pilot star 
Gleams one congenial ray, repellent of despair ? 

XII. 

Is it that thou didst love mankind 

With ardour warm as angels feel ; 
And did they spurn thy generous mind, 
And wanton wound — nor wish to heal ? 
— If causes dark as these have wrought 
The puzzling wreck of splendid thought, 



THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 19 

I weep ! — and meekly turn from this low earth ; 
Yet sometimes muse, why miscreants 

bloom, 
While Sorrow's bleak untimely gloom . 
Blights, ere his powers expand, the trembling 
child of Worth! 



C 2 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 



1795. 

The fluttering gale has sunk to rest, 
The sloping sun-beams feebly glow, 

Such zephyrs breathe as sooth the breast, 
Such radiance pours as softens woe. 

The languid notes of lonesome bird, 
From yonder coppice sweetly wind ; 

And thro' the scene are faintly heard 
Sounds that are silence to the mind. 

As slow my devious feet advance 

Thro' Eve's unrealizing gloom, 
Mine eyes peruse with eager glance 

An Infant's solitary tomb. 

*Tis simple ! yet the green sod here 
That seems to court no stranger's eye, 

Than marble claims a tenderer tear, 
Than sculpture moves a softer sigh ! 



DIRGE. 21 

A lonely primrose lifts its head, 

And here and there pale violets peep; 

And, if no venal tears are shed, 
The dews from many a daisy weep. 

And Pity here is often seen 

To prompt the nameless pilgrim's sighs, 
For Pity loves to haunt the scene 

Where Grief is stript of Art's disguise. 

I mark'd the spot ! — and felt my soul 
I Enwrapp'd in Sorrow's softest mood ; 
The pensive shade that o'er me stole, 
It could not lightly be withstood, 



I mark'd the spot — and thought how soon 
Each earthly blessing is resign'd ! 

E'en then I saw life's dearest boon 
Consign'd to dust — to death consign'd ! 

And while a parent's hopes and fears, 
To fabling Fancy forceful swell ; 

And while a parent's anxious tears, 

These accents negligently fell : — 



22 DIRGE. 

" Thou little tenant of the grave, 

" Sleep on, untoueh'd by mortal strife, 

" Unknown the cares that man must brave, 
* The ills, that only end with life ! 

" Of eager hope, unconscious thou, 
" Unconscious thou of griefs extreme: 

" To thee- an everlasting now ! 

" To thee — a sleep without a dream ! 

u Sleep on, poor child! — a fellow worm, 
" Who's prov'd for thee life's joy and care, 

" Would fain forego the useless term, 

" He's tasted life and death's his prayer. 

" To thee, poor child ! ere grief is brought 
" To vex thy soul, oblivion's given ! 

" Oh ! if the grave could boast of thought, 

" That thought would make the grave < 

" heaven /" 

Farewell, sweet spot ! my soul I feel 
Entranc'd in sorrow's softest mood ; 

These pensive shades that o'er me steal, 
They shall not lightly be withstood. 






STANZAS, 

WRITTEN BY ULSWATER, CUMBERLAND. 



May, 1795. 
.Fair lake, I mark thine ample tide, 

Thy crisped surface clear and blue ; 
I mark the groves that fringe thy side 

Reflected in thy mirror true. 

I mark yon grey rocks rudely wild, 
That nod stupendous o'er the vale ; 

I feel the breezes warm and mild, 
That haste to fill yon silken sail. 

I see the transient shadow pass 

Along thy variegated hills ; 
And while they lave the margin grass, 

I hear thy sweetly murmuring rills. 

I hear the mellow-melting horn, 
While Echo swells each languid close ; 

On every breeze is music borne ! 

On every object beauty glows ! 



24 STANZAS. 

Welcome the wild tumultuous thrill ! 

Hail, child of Nature, fond alarm ! 
To me this sigh is pleasing still, 

To me this tear has many a charm. 

But yet I wish — thou hov'ring sigh, 
But yet I wish — thou glowing tear, 

I wish — and yet I scarce know why 

Sophia, when you rise, were near, 



ADDRESS 
TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 



1795. 
When first thine eyes beheld the light, 
And Nature bursting on thy sight 
Pour'd on thy beating heart a kindred day ; 
Genius, the fire-eyed Child of Fame ! 
Circled thy brows with mystic flame, 
And warm with hope, pronounced this prophet- 
lay. 

Thee, darling Boy ! I give to know 
Each viewless source of Joy and Woe, 

For thee my vivid visions shall unfold : 

Each form, that freezes sense to stone, 
Each phantom of the world unknown, 

Shall flit before thine eyes, and waken thoughts 
untold. 



26 ADDRESS 

The bent of purpose unavow'd ; 

Of Hopes and Fears the wildering crowd ; 
The incongruous train of wishes undefined ; 

Shall all be subjected to thee ! 

The excess of Bliss and Agony 
Shall oft alternate seize thy high-attemper'd 
mind. 

Oft o'er the woody summer vale 

When Evening breathes her balmy gale, 

Oft by the wild brook's margin shalt thou rove ; 
When just above the western line 
The clouds with richer radiance shine, 

Yellowing the dark tops of the mountain-grove. 

There Love's warm hopes thy breast shall 

fill, 
For Nature's charms with kindliest skill 
Prepare for Love's delicious extacy ; 

Thy prostrate mind shall sink subdued, 
While in a strange fantastic mood, 
The wild power fires thy veins, and mantles in 
thine eye ! 

For know where'er my influence dwells, 
Each selfish interest it expels, 



TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 27 

And wakes each latent energy of soul ; 
Indifference, of the marble mien, 
Shall ne'er with lazy spells be seen, 

To quench th' immortal wish, that aims perfec- 
tion's goal. 

There shalt thou burst, whate'er it be 

That manacles mortality, 
And range thro' scenes by fleshly feet untrod; 

And Inspiration to thine eye 

Shall bid futurity be nigh, 
And with mysterious power approximate to 
God. 



CHRISTMAS. 



1796. 
This is the time when every vacant breast 
Expands with simplest mirth. Mem'ry, thou nurse 
Of mingled feeling, trace the former years, 
And count each jolly festival ! 

My heart 
Scarce knew to feel, ere it more lively beat, 
When I beheld the evergreen enwreathe 
The ice-emblazon'd lattice ; or aloft, 
Shadowing the comely flitch, that jovial branch 
Beneath whose licens'd shade the honest swain 
Imprints the kiss unblam'd : and even now 
Something like joy steals to my quicken'd pulse 
When Friends bid " merry Christmas." 

Oh ! 'tis good 
To hear the voice of hospitality ; 
To feel the hearty grasp of love, to quit 
For a brief interval the forms and pressures 
Of life's tame intercourse. 



CHRISTMAS 29 

And now I glean 
The remnants that I may of parted joys 
To deck this forlorn year, stealing from hours 
Long past and flush with jollity. 

There is a time 
When first sensation paints the burning cheek, 
Fills the moist eye, and quickens the keen pulse, 
That mystic meanings half conceiv'd invest 
The simplest forms, and all doth speak, all lives 
To the eager heart ! At such a time to me 
Thou cam'st, dear holiday! Thy twilight glooms 
Mysterious thoughts awaken'd, and I mus'd 
As if possest, yea felt as I had known 
The dawn of inspiration. Then the days 
Were sanctified by feeling, all around 
Of an indwelling presence darkly spake. 
Silence had borrow'd sounds to cheat the soul ! 
And, to the toys of life, the teeming brain, 
Impregning them with its own character, 
Gave preternatural import ; the dull face 
Was eloquent, and e'en the idle air 
Most potent shapes, varying and yet the same, 
Substantially express'd. 

But soon my heart, 
Unsatisfied with blissful shadows, felt 



30 CHRISTMAS. 

Actings of vacancy, and own'd the throb 
Of undefin'd desire, while lays of love 
Firstling and wild stole to my trem'lous tongue. 
To me thy rites were mock'ry then, thy glee 
Of little worth. More pleas'd I trod the waste 
Sear'd with the sleety wind, and drank its blast; 
Deeming thy dreary shapes most strangely sweet, 
Mist-shrouded winter ! In mute loneliness 
I wore away the day which others hail'd 
So cheerily, still usher'd in with chaunt 
Of carol, and the merry ringer's peal, 
Most musical to the good man that wakes 
And praises God in gladness. 

But soon fled 
The dreams of love fantastic ! Still the Friend, 
The Friend, the wild roam o'er the drifted snows 
Remain unsung ! Then when the wintry view 
Objectless, mist-hidden, or in uncouth forms 
Prank'd by the arrowy flake might aptly yield 
New stores to shaping phantasy, I rov'd 
With him my lov'd companion ! Oh, 'twas sweet; 
Ye who have known the swell that heaves the 

breast 
Pregnant with loftiest poesy, declare 
Is aught more soothing to the charmed soul 
Than friendship's glow, the independent dream 



CHRISTMAS. 31 

Gathering when all the frivolous shews are fled 
Of artificial life ; when the wild step 
Boundeth on wide existence, unbeheld, 
Uncheck'd, and the heart fashioneth its hope 
In Nature's school, while Nature bursts around, 
Nor Man her spoiler meddles in the scene ! 
Farewell, dear day, much hath it sooth'd my heart 
To chaunt thy frail memorial. 

Now advance 
The darkening years, and I do sojourn, home! 
From thee afar. Where the broad-bosom'd hills, 
Swept by perpetual clouds, of Scotland, rise, 
Me fate compels to tarry. 

Ditty quaint 
Or custom'd carol, there my vacant ear 
Ne'er blest! I thought of home and happier days ! 
And as I thought, my vexed spirit blam'd 
That austere race, who, mindless of the glee 
Of good old festival, coldly forbade 
Th' observance which of mortal life relieves 
The languid sameness, seeming too to bring 
Sanction from hoar antiquity and years 
Long past ! 



32 CHRISTMAS. 

For me, a plain and simple man, 
I rev'rence my forefathers, and would hold 
Their pious ord'nance sacred ! Much I hate 
The coxcomb innovator, who would raze 
The deeds of other times ! Most sweet to me 
These chroniclers of life ; oft round them twine 
Dear recollections of the past, the sum 
Of all those comforts which the poor heart feels 
While struggling here, bearing with holy care 
Its little stock of intermediate joy, 
To bless the circle of domestic love. 
And now farewell ! Thus former years have fed 
My retrospective lays ! Sad barrenness 
Scowls o'er the present time ! No boyish sports, 
No youthful dreams, or hopes fantastic, now 
Endear thy festival ! Rapture is fled, 
And all that nourish'd high poetic thought 
Vanish'd afar ; yet Resignation meek 
Chastens past pleasure with her evening hues, 
And lends a sober charm, mild as the shade 
Mantling the scene, which glisten'd late beneath 
Day's purple radiance, when grey twilight falls 
Soft harmonizing. Rich variety 
Pales to a sadden'd sameness ! 

Nor can I 
Forget what I have lost since last I hail'd 



CHRISTMAS. 33 

Thy jolly tide ! The aged Friend is dead ! 
The Friend who mingled in my boyish sports ! 
The Friend who solac'd my eccentric heart ! 
The Friend by whose mild suffrage unimpelPd 
I ne'er could taste of joy ! — Yes, She is dead ! 
So be it ! Yet r tis hard to smile, and know 
So sad a loss ! I bend before my God, 
And, silent at the past, commune henceforth 
Of days in store, u of righteousness to come," 
Of faith, of hope, and of a better world ! 






THE WOODMAN. 

Written July, 1797. 



Ah ! wherefore that gibbet which dismally rocks, 

As the gale of the hill moans profound ; 
While the fair spreading valley, now whitened 

with flocks, 
Now with tufted slopes varied, and villages, 
mocks 
The cold heathy mountains around ? 

There suffered poor Harry, the generous and 
bold! 

The hamlet hia virtues well knew ; 
His the free grace of youth ; his eye always told 
The feelings of nature ; his looks never cold, 

When they promised the most were most true. 



THE WOODMAN. 35 

And he loved : nor his loyal affection to bless 

The maiden did ever delay : 
His tongue's mellow music would sweetly ex- 
press, 
And his eyes melting gaze, and a timid caress. 

That his thrilled heart was rapturously gay. 

And often the sweets of a virtuous embrace, 

If at evening he anxiously hied, 
All faint from the copse, would his weariness 

chase, 
In a moment enlighten his moist harass'd face 

With a smile of inspirited pride. 

Then around the trim hearth he the eve would 
beguile, 
Reclined on the breast of his maid ; 
Having wooed her to sing, he would watch all 

the while, 

How in her soft lip's inexpressible smile, 
Love's witcheries furtively played. 

And when the green mead and the full-foliaged 
spray 
Refresh the glad eye, they would roam ; 
And, twining their arms, would exultingly say, 
That, ere the leaves fell, at the close of the day, 
They, wedded, should hie to one home, 
D 2 



M THE WOODMAN. 

Ah, bootless the thought ! The prospect, though 
sweet, 
Was frail as the tints of the sky, 
When the day's radiance fades, and the traveller 

to cheat, 
A gleam riseth beauteous, most vivid and fleet, 
For the night-storm is brooding on high. 

Twas summer ; — and sultry and parching noon- 
tide, 

The woodman, with labour oppressed, 
The ragings of thirst would relieve ; — by the side 
Of his path, on a sign, he unluckily spied 

All the trophies of Bacchus confessed. 

Might ever his breast's irresistible throe 
To the o'ertakings of pleasure invite ; 
He quaffs, till with passion his cheeks deeply 

glow, 
Life's full tides through his veins more tumultu- 
ously flow ; — 
His heart shaped untasted delight ! 

And now he must go to the green coppice shade; 

While o'ercharged with delirious fire, 
And passionate impulse, he quickly surveyed 
Where a female half-clad was alluringly laid ; 

And he seized her with maddened desire. 



THE WOODMAN. 37 

Twas a poor wandering idiot, diffused in the 
sun, 
Who was basking, that there met his eye : 
His good angel forsook him ! — Confounded, un- 
done, 
He for ever the cause of his ruin would shun, 
And wished at that moment to die. 

No more on his Mary the wretched youth thought, 
Or thinking, he started convulsed ! 

He would give at that hour the whole world to 
have bought 

The bliss which her image had formerly brought, 
Ere conscience that image repulsed. 

And though he still loved, yet his love mix'd 
with shame, 
Was bitter as once it was sweet, 
When the innocent maiden was near him, the 

flame 
Of tremulous agony shot through his frame, 
Nor her look dared he ever to meet. 

Now Harry's a father. The crazed outcast sent 
A poor babe to his cot : then he cried, 

" My arm is my all; will not Justice relent? 

" And will nothing but twenty gold pieces prevent • 
u The idiot from being my. bride?" 



38 THE WOODMAN. 

Distracted at leaving the maid of his love, 

And loathing the outcast to wed ; — 
All agonized ; — hopeless ; — too poor to remove 
The evils that threaten, no longer he strove, 
But to prison was cruelly led. 

And long he persisted ; , but, stiffened with cold, 

And consumed both by hunger and thirst, — 
He at last to his tyrants his happiness sold, 
The idiot did wed, and consented to fold 
To his heart, what it secretly cursed. 

And then did he think, till 'twas madness to 
think, 
On the raptures his Mary had given ; 
And oft at the sight his poor senses would sink, 
When this ungifted wretch made him keenlier 
shrink 
From the raptures of forfeited heaven. 

Twas a cold wintry season, the night it was 
dark, 
And long was the eve ; — on his cheek, 
While his eye brooded vacantly o'er the pale 



As it died on the hearth, the beholder might 
mark 
Those workings that bid the heart break. 



THE WOODMAN. 39 

He thought on the maid ; on the choice of his 
youth ; 

He thought on the days that were flown ; 
He painted with feelings more vivid than truth 
The raptures that wonted his bosom to sooth, 

When he counted that Maiden his own. 

And he dwelt on her look, on her soft melting 
gaze, 
On the roll of her languishing eye ; 
And he felt all the throbs of her willing embrace, 
And recalled the warm touch of her soft melting 
face, 
And heard the inarticulate sigh. 

Then he looked on his mate, and she seem'd to 
his view 

A fiend that tormented his soul ! 
He lifted his hand ; and, oh God ! ere he knew 
The extent of his crime, the poor victim he slew, 

'Twas an impulse he might not control ! 

For their prey now the blood-hunters anxiously 
wait, 

The unfortunate woodman is bound ! 
Once more he beholds the heavy hinged gate 
Of the prison ; the fetters with torturing weight 

Again bend him down to the ground. 



40 THE WOODMAN. 

There agonized, hopeless, remorseful, he lies, 

With passions diseasedly rife ; — 
Disarmed of a conscience that comfort supplies, 
With the frenzies of madness he impiously tries 

To exhaust the vexed remnants of life. 

He is sentenc'd to die; nor to him was the 
doom 
With regret or reluctancy fraught ; — 
His misery mocks all the threats of the tomb, 
And he earnestly prays that the moment may 
come, 
The sabbath of agonized thought. 

The day is appointed ; slow moves on the throng, 
That would glut their foul gaze with his woes ; 
It trampleth the vale, then windeth along 
That desolate hill, whose wild thickets among 
A gibbet all fearfully rose. 

The scaffold he mounts ; the moment is near, 

When, echoing far through the crowd, 
A shriek of wild agony thrills on his ear, 
Oh God ! — a poor maniac ! — his Mary is here — 
She rushes along screaming loud. — 



THE WOODMAN. 41 

Then death it was horror; — the past was forgot — 
From her visage he fearfully shrunk : — 

One embrace she implor'd, then quick to the 
spot 

The fear-winged Mary distractedly shot, 
On the breast of her lover she sunk. 

She was senseless; her pale cheek was worn to 
the bone, 
To the breeze floated wildly her hair^ 
And he glued to his breast, with a horrible groan, 
The love of his youth ; and his eyes fixed as 
stone, 
At that moment did deathfully glare. 

The pang it is passed ; — for the minions of law 

Asunder these wretched ones tore ; 
The cord round his neck they inhumanly draw, 
Mary's eyes, tho' half clos'd, the dire spectacle 
saw, 
T$oy her senses could mortal restore. 



The Circumstances related in the following Lines 
fell under the Author's notice, and are detailed 
without any poetical exaggeration. 



1797. 
Turn not thy dim eyes to the stormy sea, 
Thou wretched mourner ! for thy Child is gone ; 
Gone, never to return ! Goaded by ills, 
Which poor mortality may not endure, 
Unshrinking, he hath left his native land, 
His native home, all the dear charities 
Of brother, son, and friend ! and more than 

these, 
The inexplicable lingerings which endear 
To the susceptible breast the scenes where first 
It learn'd to feel, where young sensation gave 
Mysterious import to the characters 
Of Nature's volume ! But he may not go 
Without some sad memorial from the heart 
Which knew him best, the heart which sadly 

mark'd 
His full soul, and his vigorous spirit sink 
Unmechaniz'd by pain ! 



LINES ON A FRIEND. 43 

And surely thou, 
Deserted mother •! for a while shalt feel 
Some mingled solacings of gloomy joy, 
When I relate his wrongs whom thou dost weep, 
Yet living, lost for ever. 

When a child, 
His father died, and died with ear which long 
Had drunk the pois'nous tale of calumny. 
Five infants totter'd round the widow'd mother, 
And he who should have screen'd them, ere he 

went 
To the cold grave ; them, and their feeble parent, 
With alienated love had left his all 
In stranger hands ; had listen'd to a lie 
Which robb'd their mother of a taintless name; 
And the poor tremblers, e'en on life's hard verge, 
Knew not a father's kind protection ; eat, 
Though affluence might have blest them, the 

scant meal 
Uncertain ; while their mother, with a heart 
Torn, and misgiving of the future dole 
Reluctantly supplied, hung o'er her babes 
With sorrows heighten'd by a cruel sense 
Of what she once had been, with agony 



44 LINES ON A FRIEND. 

And unexpress'd despair. Meanwhile the fiends, 
Who fram'd with slandering tongue the deadly 

tale, 
That numb'd the fibres of the dying man, 
E'en till he knew not pity, till he lost 
All fleshly yearnings, — they did gorge their prey, 
And hug their hidden treasure ! 

Scarce arriv'd 
At manhood, soon as He* began to feel, 
He felt what injury and injustice are, 
And bitter disappointment. He no friend 
Possess'd ; yet had a bosom that might own 
All the varieties of social joy, 
From meekest pity to the expansive swell 
Of warm benevolence ; from passion's throe, 
To the holier interchange of kindred souls ! 
How has he struggled with the instinctive love 
That led him to embrace his fellow men, 
And bind them to his breast! I only knew 
The ruins of his mind ; yet have I seen 
The smother'd tear for passing wretchedness ! 
I've seen the faint flush, and the pulse of pity, 

* The subject of the tale ; whose name the Author has 
purposely omitted. 



LINES ON A FRIEND. 45 

Working on his poor cheek, e'en while he forc'd 
The unnatural laugh of hard indifference 
To cope with nature's pleadings ! Oh, my God ! 
I have e'en heard him, with most strange per- 
version, 
Brag that weak man was fashion'd by his Maker 
To live a lonely, uncompanion'd thing ; 
That he was self-sufficient ; that the smile 
Of sweet affection was a very cheat, 
And love's best energies impertinence : 
While ever on his favourite household dog 
He look'd such meanings of a hollow heart, 
His rebel eye express'd such sad misgivings, 
That all he spake fell flat upon the ear, 
Self-contradicted . 

With some scanty wrecks, 
Snatch'd from his father's stores, he struggled 

long 
To brave the world ! enrolling his fair name 
With those who seek, by jostling with mankind, 
To gain some footing on this wretched earth. 
But he, the adventurer's wild spontaneous life 
Leading, with ardour ever prompt to act 
The heart's quick impulses, had not (poor man) 
Been school'd in all the subtleties of fraud; 



46 LINES ON A FRIEND. 

la that nice lore of systematic lies, 
Which commerce, unrelenting task-master, 
Exacts from those who'd fatten on her smiles ! 
His manly reason could not tamely brook 
To shrink and tremble, and annihilate 
Its noblest energies, at the curst saws 
Of. mammon's sons— No; he had trod too long 
His mortal path unbending and erect ! 
As well they may, in this world's difficult pas- 
sage, 
Who know not cunning's complicated schemes. 
He fell, where each half-fashioned unripe knave 
Is shuffled off by a more perfect villain. 
His prospects blasted, his fair name traduc'd, 
His very milk of human kindness turn'd 
To pois'nous gall ; distracted by the tears 
Of his poor mother, and the sobs and prayers 
Of brothers, sisters, who look'd up to him 
For daily bread, he left his native land, 
And with a mind resolved to endure 
Through future life a most unnatural blank, 
Sail'd o'er the element ! 

I saw him go 
He said not aught that to the standers by 
Betray'd a suffering one ; but he did look ! 



LINES ON A FRIEND. 47 

Oh God ! he look'd pale, stiff as a sear'd oak 
Blanch'd by the lightning ; and mute vacancy 
Sat on his face, as no soul dwelt within ! 
He went ; nor human ear hath heard of him ! 
Nor human tongue made mention of his name I 
Oft I pass by his dwelling, vacant now ; 
And at such times I almost curse a world 
That moulds to guilt the energetic soul 
Of loftiest promise ; and for saintly worth 
Invents a discipline which ends in ruin ! 



LONDON. 



In solitude 
What happiness! — Who can enjoy alone? 
Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? 

Milton. 



1798. 

Thou first of human feelings, social love ! 
I must obey thy powerful sympathies, 
E'en though IVe often found that those my heart 
Most priz'd, were creatures of its warm desires, 
Rather than aught which other men less prone 
To affections swift, transforming quality, 
Might worthy deem or excellent ! 

Thy scenes, 
Thy tainted scenes, proud city, now detain 
My restless feet. 'Twill sooth a vacant hour 
To trace what dim inexplicable links 
Of hidden nature have inclin'd my soul 
To love what heretofore it most abhorr'd. 



LONDON. 41) 

When first a little one I mark'd far off 
The wreathed smoke that capp'd thy palaces : 
Oh what a joyous fluttering of the heart, 
Oh what exulting hopes were mine ! Methought, 
Within thy walls there must be somewhat strange, 
Surpassing greatly any wondrous dream, 
Of fairy grandeur, which my crnldhood lov'd. 
And when I heard the busy hum of men, 
And saw the passing crowd in endless ranks, 
The many-colour'd equipage, and steeds 
Gaily caparison'd ; it seem'd to me 
As though all living things were centered here. 
But other feelings soon transformed these shews 
To meerest emptiness, e'en till my soul 
Would sicken at their presence ; for IVe sought 
To cherish quiet musings, and disdain'd 
The idle forms which play upon the sense, 
Yet give the heart no comfortable thoughts. 
Yes, I have sought the solitary walk, 
Where I might number eveiy absent friend, 
And give a tear to each : IVe nurs'd my soul 
With strangest contemplation, till it wore 
A sad and lonely character, untouch'd 
By th' operation of external shapes. 
Yet, London, now thou'rt pleasant — 'tis e'en so ! 
For I am sick of hopes that stand aloof 
£ 



50 LONDON. 

From common sympathy ; for I am sick 

Of pampering delicate exclusive loves, 

And silly dreams of rapture, that would pull 

The shrinking hand from every honest grasp, 

The shrinking heart from every honest pledge, 

Not trickt in gracefulness poetical ! 

Sometimes, 'tis true, when I have pac'd the 

haunts 
Of crowded occupation, I have felt 
A sad repression, looking all around, 
Nor catching one known face amid the throng, 
That answer'd mine with cordial pleasantness. 
I've often thought upon some absent friend, 
E'en till an assur'd hope that he was nigh 
Has made me lift my head, and stretch my arm, 
To gaze upon the form, and grasp the hand, 
Of him who lived in my wayward dream. 
And I have look'd, and all has been to me 
A crowded desolation ! Not one being, 
'Mid that incessant and perturbed throng, 
Dreamt of my hopes or fears ! Then have I pac'd 
With breathless eagerness ; and if an eye 
Has met my gaze, wherein some trace remote 
Lived of one on whom my heart has lean'd, 
A gentle thrilling of awaken'd love 
Has warm'd my breast, and haply kindled there 



LONDON. 51 

A dream of parted days, that so my feet, 
It seem'd to me, mov'd not in solitude. 
Thus cart the heart, by its strange agency, 
Extract divine emotion from the scene 
Most barren and uncouth ; which images 
To him who cannot love, — who never felt 
That ever active warmth commingling still 
Its own existence with all present things, — 
Nought beside forms, and bodily substances. 

Methinks he acts the purposes of life, 
And fills the measure of his destiny 
With best approved wisdom, who retires 
To some majestic solitude ; his mind 
Rais'd by those visions of eternal love, 
The rock, the vale, the forest, and the lake. 
The sky, the sea, and everlasting hills. 
He best performs the purposes of life, 
And fills the measure of his destiny, 
Who holds high converse with the present God 
(Not mystically meant), and feels him ever 
Made manifest to his transfigur'd soul. 
But few there are who know to prize such bliss ; 
And he who thus would raise his mortal being, 
Must shake weak nature off, and be content 
To live a lonely uncompanion'd thing, 
E 2 



52 LONDON. 

Exil'd from human loves and sympathies. 
Therefore the city must detain my feet ; 
For I would sometimes gaze upon a face 
That smiles on me, and speaks intelligibly 
Of one that answers all my hopes and fears. 
Nor is to me the sentiment of life 
Less acceptable, when I contemplate 
Numberless living and progressive beings, 
Acting the infinite varieties 
Of this miraculous scene. For though the dim 
And inharmonious ministrations here, 
Of heavenly wisdom, may confound the sense, 
The partial sense of man, my soul is glad ; 
Trusting that all, yea every* living thing, 
Shall understand, in the appointed time, 
And praise the inwoven mystery f of sin; 
Losing each hope and each propellent fear 
In perfect bliss ; and " God be all in all !" 

* See Hartley « On the final Happiness of all Mankind." 
f " For the mystery of iniquity doth already work." 

St. Paul to Timothy, 



LINES 

TO 

MARY fVOLLSTOJXECRAFT GODWIN. 



I AM happy in being able to offer this imperfect 
tribute to the memory of a woman, whose unde- 
served sufferings have excited my indignation 
and pity; and whose virtues, both of heart and 
mind, my warmest esteem. 

This will not be deemed a parasitical profes- 
sion, when I avow a complete dissent from Mrs. 
Godwin with regard to almost all her moral spe- 
culations. 

Her posthumous works, so far from convinc- 
ing me that " the misery and oppression peculiar 
to women arise out of the partial laws and in- 
stitutions of society ,"* appear little less through- 
out than an indirect panegyric on the institutions 
she wishes to abolish. She (with all other great 

* See Posthumous Works, vol. ii. p. 166. 



54 LINES 

minds) owed her degree of intellectualization to 
the very restraints on the passions whicli she 
was aiming to annihilate ; and the source of the 
miseries she complained of must rather be sought 
for in the brute turbulencies of human nature, 
than in the operation of any laws, conventional or 
positive. 

However, the heart and upright dignity of 
this excellent woman have much interested me. 
I never quarrel with opinions; and I fervently 
wish that the expression of my admiration were 
more worthy of its object. 



" On examining my heart, I find that it is so constituted, 
I cannot live without some particular affection. I am 
afraid, not without a passion ; and I feel the want of it 
more in society than in solitude." 

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin's Letters, vol. i. p. 178. 

1798. 
Mary, I've trod the turf beneath whose damp 
And dark green coverture thou liest ! 'Twas 

strange ! 
And somewhat most like madness shot athwart 
The incredulous mind, when I bethought myself 
That there so many earnest hopes and fears, 



TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN. 55 

So many warm desires, and lofty thoughts, 
Affections imitating, in their wide 
And boundless aim, heaven's universal love, 
Lay cold and silent ! Listening to the breeze, 
That scarcely murmur'd thro' the misty air, 
And looking on the white and solemn clouds, 
(The only things whose motion spake of life) 
I almost counted to have heard thy voice, 
And seen thy shadowy shape ; for my full heart 
(Tho' to my mortal sense thou ne'er wert known) 
Had bodied all thy mental attributes 
In th' unintelligent and vacant space. 

Mary, thou sleep'st not there ! — 'Twas but a 
trance, 
An idle trance, that led my wayward thought 
To seek a more especial intercourse 
With thy pure spirit on the senseless sod, 
Where what was thine, not thou, lies sepulchred. 
Life is a dream ! and death a dream to those 
Who gaze upon the dead : to those who die 
Tis the withdrawing of a lower scene 
For one more real, pure, and infinite ! 

Amid the trials of this difficult world, 
Surely none press so sorely on the heart 



56 LINES 

As disappointed loves, and impulses 
(Mingling the lonely insulated soul 
With all surrounding and external things) 
Sever'd from nature's destined sympathies ! 
This was thy lot on earth ! — Yet think not thou, 
Man of the world, to triumph here o'er those, 
Whose separate and immortalized spirits 
Spoil them for life's pernicious intercourse. 
This is the school of minds ; and every wish, 
Drawn from the earthly part, shall raise the being, 
And fit it for a wider range, whene'er 
The twofold ministry of flesh and spirit 
Hath done its troubled business. Therefore 

thou, 
Though here tormented, shalt in better worlds 
Be greatly comforted ! 

I laugh at those 
Who blame that upright singleness of soul, 
Which ever shap'd the accents of thy tongue ! 
Look to yourselves, pedantic censurers ! 
Examine well within ; for much, I fear, 
Ye would but ill endure the scrutiny 
That only gives to her a nobler rank 
'Mid beings compos'd of heart and intellect. 
In this fantastic scene each one assumes 



TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN. 57 

A borrow'd character, and all agree 
To seem a something, which in his secret thought 
Each knows he is not; which the God of nature 
Ne'er made, or meant a child of his to be ! 
And if a Man of Truth make no pretence 
To some unhuman virtue, the brute crowd 
Pluck off his hair, and plant with bitterness 
Thorns of reproach on his devoted head ! 
Heaven knows that we have passions, and have 

hearts 
To love ; and they alone embrute or soil 
The divine lustre of the better part, 
Who love nor intellectual preference seek, 
Eradicating from each sympathy 
The holiness of reason, and that pure, 
And high imagination, which would lose 
The bodily in the spiritual.* 

I revere 
That simpleness which gave to her pure lips 
A ready utterance to each inward thought. 
And I revere that obstinate regard 
Which hung upon its object, e'en till all 
The tender semblances, which lingering hope 

* My earthly by his heavenly overpowered, — Milton. 



58 LINES. 

Loves with such earnestness, were fully gone ! 
For passion, sanctified, will centre all 
Its warm hopes in a chosen one ! Not dead, 
Nor e'er abolish'd, as some idly talk ; 
Impostors, or base carles, who never knew 
Man's dearest charities. And passions ever 
Shake with most potent stirrings the sublime 
And pregnant minds, which wield with mightiest 

skill 
The multitudinous elements of life. 
But if that one forsake the soul which twin'd 
So many warm endearments round its choice, 
The world will seem a very wilderness ! 



TO 

A YOUNG MAN, 

ATTACHED TO THE SPORTS OF THE FIELD. 



Detested sport, 
That owes its pleasure to another's pain; 
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued 
With eloquence that agonies inspire 
Of silent tears, and heart-distending sighs ; 
Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never rind 
A corresponding tone in jovial souls. 

COWPER'S TASK. 



1798. 

Oh stay thy hand — thou hast a power to kill 
But none to bring forth life ! Impressive truth, 
Sounding to wisdom like a warning voice, 
And teaching that our feebleness to work 
The least good thing, should guard us tremblingly 
From aught that looks like evil; lest we wrench 
From her retired seat the better soul, 
The sense which God hath lent us, which that 
God 



60 TO A YOUNG MAN. 

Sees not polluted with a slumbering eye ; 
But vexes him that sets his gift at nought 
With aweful darkness, and a fearful wandering ! 

Thou seest athwart this grove of trembling trees, 
Trembling and glistening with the morning light, 
Thou seest yon lavrock rise ! — to the great sun 
He seems to hasten :— save the burning orb 
That lives above, nought but this little bird 
Varies the mighty solitude of Heaven ! 
Art thou assur'd the Almighty doth not speak 
To that same little bird? — that morning's glories 
Are not discourses of his watchful love 
Gladd'ning this innocent creature ? Could'st thou 

seek 
To stop his song of gratulation, quench 
His sense of joy, and all those living powers 
That dance so cheerly in him? They serve Heaven 
Who love his works ! and they most feel a God 
Who hold each bodily sense a holy thing, 
Communicating measurably to all 
The influxes of that eternal Spirit 
Whose countenance to man are day-light hues, 
And sky, and sea, and forests, lakes, and hills, 
And lightnings, thunders, and prodigious storms, 
And suns, and all the company of worlds ! 



TO A YOUNG MAN. 61 

I would not kill one bird in wanton sport, 
I would not mingle jocund mirth with death, 
For all the smoking board, the savoury feast 
Can yield most exquisite to pamper'd sense ! 

Since nature wills that every living thing 
Should gratify the purposes of man, 
And wait his proud disposal, let him prove, 
E'en in this delegated function, prove, 
A deep humility, which fears to tread 
Where the all-perfect, and unquestion'd God 
Hath wrought strange imperfection — perhaps to 

bend, 

And by the influence of an holy sadness, 
To tame the o'erweening soul! not give a cause 
For riotous Dominion, and for Power 
Sweeping with mad career from off this world 
Its fair inhabitants ! 

My friend, I knew 
A man who liv'd in solitude : a dell 
A mossy dell, green, woody, hung around 
With various forest growth, was his abode. 
And in the forest many a gleaming plot 
Of tenderest grass, its island circlet spread ! 



62 TO A YOUNG MAN. 

This man did rear a hut, and lived and died 
In that lone dell ! He had no friend on earth, 
Nor wanted one — For much he lov'd his God, 
And much those works which e'en the lonely man 
May taste abundantly ! And he did think 
So oft on life's great Author, that at last 
He worshipp'd him in all things, and believ'd 
His poorest creatures holy, and could see 
" Religious meanings in the forms of nature," 
Dreaming he saw, e'en in the passing bird, 
The crawling worm, or serpent on the grass, 
An emanation of his Maker — so 
That a new presence stung him into thought 
And made him kneel and weep ! 

Well ! this poor man 
Liv'd on the scanty fruits this little dell 
Afforded. Never did a dying writhe, 
Or dying gasp, war with his sense of good. 
At last he died, and such had been his life, 
That when he yielded up his animal frame, 
It only seem'd as if he went to sleep 
More quietly than ever ! 



TO A YOUNG MAN, 

Who considered the Perfection of Human Nature 
as consisting in the Vigor and Indulgence of the 
more boisterous Passions. 



1798. 
This is not pleasure ! canst thou look within 
And say that thou art blest ? At close of day 
Canst thou retire to thy fire-side alone, 
Quiet at heart, nor heeding aught remote, 
The power -of wine, or power of company, 
To fill thy human cravings t Hast thou left 
Some treasured feelings, unexhausted loves, 
Thoughts of the past, and thoughts of times to 

come, 
Mingled with sweetness all and deep content, 
For Solitude's grave moment ? Canst thou tell 
Of the last sun-set how 'twas freak 'd with clouds, 
With clouds of shape sublime and strangest hues ? 
Canst thou report the storm of yester-night, 
Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder ? 
And canst thou call to- mind the colourless moon, 



64 TO A YOUNG MAN. 

What time the thin cloud half obscured the stars, 
Muffling them, till the Spirit of the Night 
Let slip its shadowy surge, and in the midst 
One little gladdening twinkler shook its locks ? 

Oh, have these things within thee aught besides 
Human remembrance ? Have they passion, love? 
Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts 
Add images of purity and peace ? 
It is not so, cannot be so, to those 
Who in the revels of the midnight cup, 
Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gifts, 
God's supreme gifts, the energy, and fire, 
That stir, and warm the faculty of thought I 
If thou defile thyself, that joy minute, 
Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild, 
Must never be thy portion ! Thou hast lost 
That most companionable and aweful sense, 
That sense which tells us of a God in Heaven 
And beauty on the earth : that sense which lends 
A voice to silence, and to vacancy 
A multitude of shapes and hues of life ? 
Go then, relinquish pleasure ; — would'st thou know 
The throb of happiness, relinquish wine, 
And greedy lust, and greedier imagings 
Of what may constitute the bliss of man ! 



TO A YOUNG MAN. 65 

Oh ! 'tis a silent and a quiet power, 
An unobtrusive power, that winds itself 
Into all moods of time and circumstance ! 
It smiles, and looks serene ; in the clear eye 
It speaks refreshing things, but never words 
It makes its instruments, and flies away 
As 'twere polluted, from the soul that dares 
To waste God's dear endowments heedlessly, 
And without special care that present joy 
May bring an after-blessing. 



LINES 

SUGGESTED BY THE FAST, 
Appointed for Wednesday, February 27, 1799. 



Humble yourselves, my Countrymen ! — Bow 

down 
The stubborn neck of Pride ! for, east and west, 
Do Anarchy and Outrage raise a shout, 
And tempt with blasphemy the God of Heaven ! — 
Humble yourselves, my Countrymen ! — behold, 
Save in this quiet isle, how Discord stalks, 
Spoiling the fair Creation. Discord, child 
Of grasping Lust, who, many-handed beast, 
Seizes whate'er of rich munificence, 
Or plenteous benefit is pour'd abroad ; 
Wallowing unprofited, and unendow'd, 
'Mid all that ministers to use and joy. 

Why have We such immunity from woe ? 
Why is the wrath of heaven averted hence ? 
What have We left undone, or what performed, 



LINES. 67 

To appease the God of Justice ? — Countrymen — 
With minds not unprepared ; and consecrate 
From all imaginations light, and vain, 
From all unholy and polluting things, 
Seek out the hidden cause : and, if ye find 
(As sure ye will) no argument to calm 
The humble man who loves his brethren all, 
And knows their crimes ; and night, and morn, 

puts up 
A silent prayer for them who heed him not ; 
With deeply smitten, and o'erflowing hearts, 
Turn to the God of Love ! 

There is abroad 
An evil spirit ; a spirit evil and foul, 
Who, under fair pretence of modern lights, 
And vain philosophy, parcels the dole 
Of human happiness (that quality 
Sought for six thousand tedious years in vain) 
With lavish distribution ! who with speech 
Drest up in metaphysic eloquence, 
And eked out plausibly with abstract phrase, 
Would snatch from God himself the agency 
Of good and ill ! — would spoil for ornament, 
Particular and relative 9 this universe; 
F 2 



m LINES 

Where circumscribed frailty and defect, 
And harmless prejudice, and discipline, 
Lead on th« social and religious man, 
(A thing more sensitive than rational, 
Whom one poor unrepeatable restraint 
More benefits than thousand abstract truths) 
To gifted penitence, and righteous rule, 
And meek suspension of the human will, 
Till He imbibe the Heaven-evolved lore 
Of Wisdom and divine Philosophy, 
Through many a fruitful, and unfruitful age 
Piously register'd ! And so prepar'd, 
By patient noting of the ministries 
Of Heaven below ; in shadows manifest ; 
And dim relations; binding ages past, 
With present times, and ages yet unborn ; 
By persevering patience so prepar'd, 
(And mind that loves to find a good in evil, 
Not banish evil for uncertain good.) 
The vast procession of created beings, 
The Will that links the vilest elements. 
In a perpetual influence, 
To Highest natures, He shall comprehend : 
Till the magnificence of forms unveil'd 
The universal world shall seem to him 



SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 69 

A scene of order, and progressive joy, 

And blaze of light where God himself transfused 

Lives in no fabled presence ! 

This foul spirit 
God's holy place irreverently treading, 
Break its solemnities, and shameless brings, 
Scandal on many a sacred ordinance. 
It mocks neglected worth, and secret grief, 
That dare not lift a streaming eye to Heaven ! 
It promiseth the beauteous fruit of peace, 
And virtue's coronet, no trial past, 
No fiery anguish of the human will 
Quench'd with sweet drops of mercy ! 

Twould revoke 
The judgment and the privilege annex'd 
To Wealth and Talents, Influence and Power ! 
Twould snatch the promis'd blessing from the 

poor, 
Hatching an obstinate sedition 
From pamper'd lust and infidel despair; 
And blot out from its calendar of grace 
Faith and forbearance ; and deride the heart 
That seeks in this " tempestuous state of things/' 



70 LINES 

To live a life whose inoffensive rule 

Owes not its charter to the earth's wise men. 

How were the graces of the mind produc'd ? 
Did not omniscient Deity defer 
To banish hence, the appointed difference 
Of states and things, of joys and earthly stores, 
Of office and magnificence, and rank, 
Which some, misnamed wise, affect to call 
(Masking their hate in scorn) human abuse, 
A vicious usurpation ? — Countrymen, — 
Beware of these, so opulent in speech, 
So fair and plausible,— beware of these ! — 
For they would separate what their God has 

join'd 
In mystic co-existence, evil and good, 
Pleasure and Pain, Honour and Infamy ! — 
This is a scheme of means — we vainly look, 
For ends, or resting-places here obtain'd ! — 
Where were temptation, Vice annihilate ? 
Could Charity exist where never came 
The ills of persecution ? Love perform 
Its perfect work where hate inflicts no wound ? 
Could pity weep had man no miseries ? 
Meekness endure did proud men ne'er prevail ? 



SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 71 

Or Faith with fixed eye, be crown'd above 
Did not some clouds obscure the moral world? 

I ask of Thee, thou poor oppressed Man, 
Who friendless feel'st thyself, save when thou 

turn'st 
To the Everlasting Friend — I ask of Thee 
Whose actions never have been understood, 
Whom falsely fixed blame (attached to deeds 
Inexplicable, save to the All-seeing One) 
Has led a superficial world to cast 
Among its vile dishonourable things ; — 
I ask of thee, whether the darkest hour 
Of man's rejection, has not brought a boon 
Thou prizest more than worlds. — Thou lovedst 

all, 
And perhaps thou lovedst One, a fellow being, 
Better than life itself; — thou hadst a soul 
Of deepest, tenderest feeling ; — yet for thee 
There was a fix'd and secret interdict 
Inwoven in the mystery of thy fate, 
Which blasted all thy promises of joy ! 
It seem'd that thou wert guilty — 'twas not so ! 
Thou wert what proud men call unfortunate ! — 
I ask of thee again, oppressed man, 
If this withdrawing of all goodly things, 



7t LINES 

All the desirable blessings of the earth, 
Has not more wrought in thee ; more solid peace, 
More quiet joy, and heavenly grace, produc'd, 
Than aught a smiling providence could give? 

And these resources which we ne'er foresee, 
But which experience, sanctified by Heaven, 
Holds it most safe to trust, this evil spirit 
Would utterly destroy ; impatient ever 
Of present ill ; and ne'er from pious faith 
Trusting that all things tend to happiness. — 
This evil spirit misnamed Liberty- 
Licentiousness 'mong wise men deem'd, and call'd 
By aiagels blasphemy ; rejects a God 
Not seeing as man sees ; who sets at nought 
All earthly wisdom, and of smallest things 
Works mighty marvels of stupendous power ! 

But heed not, Countrymen, the bleating Wolf! 
Humble yourselves before the God of Heaven, 
Remembering still that Liberty ne'er comes 
Where more of wishes, more of lusts intrude 
Than human skill has power to gratify ! 
That liberty comes not with laws relax'd ; 
With troublous opposition, and with rude 
And boisterous promise : that futurity, 



SUGGESTED BY THE FAST. 73 

Blest with the flush of prosperous event, 
And grac'd with revel joys, shall put to shame 
The pale experience. Rather, Liberty, 
Thou liv'st with social confidence and peace ! 
Where, reasoning from the unfallacious past, 
We trust with sweet and sober certainty 
The issue of the meditated deed. — 
Or rather, Liberty, thou lov'st to dwell 
Where personal honour, not defined rules ; 
Where manly generosity, and pride 
That shrinks from every stain ; not civic laws 
That force us to be free, till Freedom's self 
Becomes a galling servitude ; — are found ! 

Then bow yourselves, my Countrymen, and 

own, 
That, in a world where voluntary slaves 
Exist by millions — wretched slaves to vice — 
That, in a world where victims to the sword, 
Famine, and pestilence, are swept away 
As summer insects by an eastern blast, — 
That, in a world like this — you're Blest and 

Free! 



LINES 

TO A BROTHER AND SISTER, 
Written soon after a Recovery from Sickness. 



6th April, 1799. 

'Tis surely hard, the melancholy day 

To waste without the cheering voice of friend: 
To see the morning dart its golden ray, 
To see the night in misty dews descend, 
Nor catch one sound where Love and Meek- 
ness blend. 
? Tis surely hard for him who knows how dear 

A kindred soul, eternally to send 
A fruitless prayer for smiles and words that 
cheer, 
The wish in looks revealed and rapture's holy tear, 

II. 

Him whom the spirit of attachment warms, 
The nameless thrilling and the soft desire : 

Him whom the glance of melting beauty charms, 
Its young allurement and its living fire ; 



LINES TO A BROTHER AND SISTER. 75 

For him in tedious languor to expire, 
Dreaming of bliss, yet wake to deep despair ; 

Fitted for love, of every joy the sire, 
To drag a life of unrequited care, 
For him, such silent woe, 'tis surely hard to bear. 

III. 

Thank Heaven, such lot hath never yet been 
mine, 

For if the gloom of discontent should fall, 
And my young spirit for a season pine, 

I cannot, save with gratitude, recall 

Gay-painted hours of dancing festival, 
When new and joyous friendships bore away 

All fears of what in future might befall, 
All recollections of uncheer'd dismay, 
Giving to full content the heartsome holiday. 



IV. 

And still (with pride my heart the truth reveals) 
Beneath my quiet and paternal roof, 

Mine eyes for ever meet the look that heals 
Pale Sorrow's anguish with a kind reproof. 



76 LINES 

For all the prodigal regards of youth 
And all the sympathies of gentlest love, 
And all the sweet simplicity of truth, 
In silent harmony for ever move 
Along the heaven-blest scene ordained for us to 
rove. 

V. 

Brothers and Sisters ! friends of infancy ! 

Oh how my heart rejoices when I speak 
Of all the sweetness of the home-bred tie, 

Whose gentle charities and graces meek 

Spread with a fairer hue the youthful cheek 
Than blushing passions deep and fiery glow ; 

Yes ! it beseems that I could never seek, 
My heart so turns to you, were ye to go, 
A new or foreign aid to mitigate the blow. 

VI. 

When morn first wakes me with its cheering 
smile, 
That cheering smile, it seems, my friends, to 
wear, 
Is friendship's charm transfused, that all the 
while 
Lives in the silent spirit of the air : 






TO A BROTftER AND SISTER. 77 

Your voices, looks, and kind inquiries bear 
Their living incense to each gladdened view ; 

And all that beams around so gay and fair, 
Is Love's officious toil, that paints anew 
Each form that looks like life with no terrestrial 
hue. 

VII. 

And when meek evening glides athwart the sky 

And drowsy silence hangs upon the earth, 
Save that some distant hum which breathes to 
die, 
May chance from haunts of bacchanalian 

mirth 
To meet his ear who sadly wandering forth 
Courts every hinting of departed bliss ; 

Yes, when meek evening glides, there spring 
to birth 
Thousand dear images of happiness, 
The Brother's honest grasp, the Sister's holy kiss, 

VIII. 

And most to you my two beloved friends ! 

My Sister, and my Brother, most to you 
My heart its cordial gratulation sends ; 

Olivia, Robert, friends both tried and true ! 



78 LINES 

Chiefly, this moment, would my soul renew 
To you its pledged affections, latest *met: 

(The absent ever it shall keep in view) 

But oh, Companions of my youth, not yet 

May I your female care and manly zeal forget. 

IX. 

Yes, all without was drear, and all within 
Was dark and hopeless ! pale disease had 
shed 
Her dullest glooms, and fain would I have been 
A quiet slumberer, number'd with the dead. 
But you with sweet solicitation led, 
And tender blandishment, my troubled breast 
From fears and doubts, and terrors fancy-fed, 
And lulled my spirit to a heavenly rest 
With Hope and Peace and Joy, and many a 
long-lost guest. 



* These were the only two of the family whom the 
author met at home on returning from a journey : soon 
after which meeting this poem was written. 



TO A BROTHER AND SISTER. 79 

X. 

Then Sister, Brother ! friends whom ne'er I hail 
Without some gentle stirring of the heart; 

Then Sister, Brother ! friends who never fail 
To hold in absence, with a secret art, 
A sweet communion with my better part, 

Accept my thanks, accept my humble lays ! 
And for one moment if your features dart 

That simple welcome which affection pays, 
Though faultering, weak, and poor, my verse 
were rich in praise ! 



LINES 

T0 ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. 

Written at Barnwell, near Cambridge, and de- 
scriptive of the adjacent Country. 



March 1st, 1800. 

Southey, once more her interrupted voice 
The Muse resumes To tell thee, Honoured 

Friend, 
Though absent far, in Fancy's airy dream 
That oft thy presence my lone hour oeguiles, 
Were sure a bootless toil. Thou knowest well 
Thy station in my heart. What then select 
To grace the humble verse ? Perchance 'twould 

fill 
A vacant hour to learn what scenes surround 
The abode of him to whom thy love recurs 
With sweet memorial unimpaired by time. 



LINES. 81 

No rocks ox mountains here, or " sea in storms," 
The world of sight endear. One joyless plain, 
A map that imitates the cold March sky, 
Lies evermore before the weary view. 

Yet here I snatch my hours of untold bliss \ 
And curious, busy, in the anxious search 
Of forms inanimate, on which to fix 
i My wayward sympathies, I haply find 
A charm in barrenness ; a power to please, — 
Though bleakest winter lowers on every side, — 
In many a shape which other eyes might pass 
Unnoticed, unremembered. 

The rude thorn, 
Coated with yellow moss, on whose sere bough* 
Hang scarlet berries, and some flakes of wool, 
That hoarsely rustles on the wide grey moor ; 
The chalky hill, which terminates the view, 
Crowned with a clump of firs, that make me think — 
So small things wake sublime remembrances — 
Of Scottish mountains, and of Scottish woods ; 
And other more remote acclivities, 
With almost undistinguisliable swell 
Lying like pale clouds on the horizon's bound, 
Amuse my soul with many a pleasing dream. 



82 LINES 

The little sinuous stream of underwood, 
Shrouded in blackness of the winter months. 
Stealing beneath the chalky eminence ; — 
Amid whose shade the church tower* peeps 

alone, 
Now a dim sullen mass of duskiest hue, 
TTnchecquer'd, save by one distinctest spot, 
The single window of the embattled pile. 
And now with shade half cloth'd, and half with 

light; 
And near the wood, and still beneath the hill, 
A snow-white cottage gleaming silently : — 
All these to me are images of joy, 
That suit the hour of meditative thought, 
And bring refreshment to that purer mind, 
Which seeks, by harmony of outward forms, 
To 'stablish inward harmony and love, 
And build on visible and earthly things 
Unearthly thoughts ! I love the wide extent, 
The interminable sweep of unfenced moor, 
That bares its bosom to the face of heaven ! 
Where, when the faint sun pours a silvery light, 
The wandering clouds a partial blackness shed; 
And o'er whose thistled heaps and clodded soil, 
And whistling stubble, flies the cutting wind. 

* The Tower of Cherry-Hinton Church. 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. 83 

I love the shrill song of the merry lark, 

Or fitful twitter of the lonely bird, 

Which, at this season, from these naked plains, 

Is all the music nature sends to heaven. 

Rather than human converse, found in haunts 
Of traffic, learning, pleasure, or of pride, 
Love I these quiet unpretending friends ! 
And these are all the quiet rural friends 
I here can boast possessing. Save one spire,* 
One spire, and woody village, whence, full oft, 
My soul refreshed, through the unwearied gaze, 
Drinks silent happiness ! The glistening spire 
Smiles in the sunbeam with a heavenly light ; 
And on a green bank fenced by orchard trees, 
Lying towards that spot, we see, at noon, 
Or hear, while bleating tenderly, young lambs 
Enjoy the first warm cherishings of spring. 
And, in the general waste, the trees around 
Wave not unnotic'd, though their naked boughs 
Boast not their summer richness, and the meads 
Spread their green turf so sweetly to the stream 

* The village of Chesterton, which, in connexion with 
a wooded and meadowy foreground, formed with its 
stream, as seen from the Author's parlour at Barnwell, 
an exquisite scene. 

G 2 



&4 LINES. 

Silently flowing, that I seem to find 

This scene, by crowds frequented every day, 

Who note it not, a world of loveliness : 

And, all forgetful of sublimer charms, 

I look with gratitude to Him who made 

All fair varieties, and gave to me 

A sense those fair varieties to feeL 



LINES, 

WRITTEN 10TH APRIL, 1800. 



Qh rus ! quando ego te aspiciam? quando licebit 
Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno et inertibus horis 
Ducere sollicitae jucunda oblivia vitae. 

Horatii Opera, 4th Sat. 



In this poem the author writes in an assumed 
character. No man can despise the pretensions 
to happiness of a solitaire more than himself; 
but, in the alternative between society and soli- 
tude, circumstances will sometimes imperiously 
urge to the choice of the latter, even where the 
warmest social affections are implanted in the 
heart, and where no moral delinquency exists 
in the character of the person who thus retires 
from the world. 

" I hear people talk of the raptures of soli- 
tude ; and with what tenderness of affection they 
can love a tree, a rivulet, or a mountain. Be<- 



86 

lieve me, they are pretenders ; they deceive 
themselves, or they seek, with their eyes open, 
to impose upon others. In addition to their trees 
and their mountains, I will give them the whole 
brute creation ; still it will not do. There is a 
principle in the heart of man which demands the 
society of his like. He that has no such society, 
is in a state but one degree removed from insa- 
nity. He pines for an ear into which he might 
pour the story of his thoughts ; for an eye that 
shall flash upon him with responsive intelligence ; 
for a face, the lines of which shall talk to him in 
dumb, but eloquent discourse, for a heart that 
shall beat in unison with his own. If there is 
any thing in human form that does not feel these 
wants, that thing is not to be counted in the file 
for a man; the form it bears is a deception, and 
the legend, man, which you read in its front, is a 
lie. Talk to me of rivers and mountains ! I ve- 
nerate the grand and beautiful exhibitions and 
shapes of nature ; no man more. I delight in 
solitude. I could shut myself up in it for succes- 
sive days. But I know that every man, at the 
end of a course of this sort, will seek for the 
intercourse of sentiments and language. The 
magnificence of nature, after a time, will pro- 



LINES. 87 

duce much the same effect upon him, as if I were 
to set down a hungry man to a sumptuous service 
of plate, where all that presented itself on every 
side was massy silver and burnished gold, but 
there was no food."* 

In short, let a man be ever so happy in soli- 
tude, nothing is more true than the old remark, 
that he will want some one to whom he may say, 
" I am happy." 

In solitude 

What happiness ! Who can enjoy alone? 

Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? 

MILTON. 



Yes, in this world, neglected Genius, pine ; 
The prize of happiness shall ne'er be thine ; 
A melancholy journey thou must run, 
Until the tedious race of life be done, 
Save when to fill thy craving breast, are given 
Some kind prelusive images of heaven. 
No, Genius, no ! 'tis well for thee, if soon 
Thou quit with apathy life's giddy noon. 
If thou alike or praise, or blame, canst hear, 
With iron soul untouched by hope or fear; 

* Fleetwood, by Mr. Godwin, vol. ii. p. 200. 



88 LINES, 

If thou canst scorn each benefit, and fly 
From friendship, gratitude, and sympathy; 
Tis well ; — go on thy way ; — and strive to keep, 
Such is life's cheat, this undisturbed sleep. 
Look not on cheeks that glow, and eyes that play 
With radiance softer than the vernal day ; 
Look not on tears that start in passion's name, 
Nor heed mild tones which music's self might 

claim ; 
Heed not the eloquence of lips which tell 
Of all the secret ecstacies that dwell 
With truth sincere, and love supremely blest, 
By a responsive, sympathizing breast. 
No ! — these are mysteries of life's sacred store 
Which, once unfolded, thou canst rest no more. 
Thy die is cast ; thy day of peace is fled ; 
And Nature's blackest storms surround thy head. 
To common mortals these are common joys; 
But not to thee ; — the perilous charm destroys ; 
Or leaves such sad fastidious gloom behind, 
That moping apathy benumbs the mind. 
Go then, relinquish pleasure wouldst thou taste 
One hour of comfort in life's gloomy waste. 
Relinquish human converse, human things, 
And all those schemes with which the wide world 

rings. 



LINES. 89 

Yet there are charms for thee : spring's sunny 

hues, 
The whispering- breeze, and morning's glittering 

dews ; 
The toll of village bell at eventide, 
The vacant ramble by the wild brook side ; 
The village tower that peeps among the trees, 
The silent stream which curls at eveiy breeze ; 
The transient sun-gleams, and the shadowy spot 
Of sailing cloud, which like a breath is not; 
The merry lark, that sings sweet songs of mirth, 
And every bud that gems this various earth : 
When calm, luxuriant, summer's fervid days 
Have sunk away in one effulgent blaze, 
The timid white stars, one by one, to eye, 
Or deepening crimson of the twilight sky ; 
The witchery of rolling clouds that weave 
The solemn pageant of departing eve. 
The awful rock, the mountain wrapp'd in storms, 
And Nature's majesty of sterner forms; 
Tempest, whose blackness all creation shrouds ; 
The solemn march of winter's midnight clouds. 
The moon's soft radiance breaking forth so white, 
Amid the murmur of the gales of night ; 
When clouds with clouds fantastically play, 
And wave their pale skirts to her liquid ray; 



90 LINES. 

Or when alone the silent orb on high 
Looks on the world with clear serenity ; 
From gloomy wood emerging to the sight, 
And pouring down the vale her flood of light. 
The velvet meadow, and the peaceful stream, 
Where through light poplars plays the chequered 

gleam ; 
The rocking forest roused to music deep, 
As o'er its wavy top thick tempests sweep ; 
The quiet lake reflecting in its tide 
A wond'rous world to other waves denied ; 
Or else, in conflict, vexed by tempests rude, 
Beating the dark cliff with its foamy flood : 
Or now, in distant blackness, scarce survey'd 
Far, far beneath the mountain's threatening shade, 
While through the clouds — that rest, the stormy 

day, 
Like travellers weary of a trackless way, 
'Mid druid piles, and haunted caverns rude, 
The rifted rocks of giant solitude — 
Full many a mountain stream is seen to flow, 
Sprung from the skies, a track of vapoury snow; 
The solemn music of the ocean roar, 
Or wildly surging on some desart shore ; 
Or when scarce curling with the zephyr bland, 
Its blue waves tremble on the silvery sand. 



LINES. 91 

The sweeping blast that cleaves the sounding sky ; 

The moorland's desolate immensity ; 

The lonesome bird of night, which sadly calls 

To mountain streams, and mossy waterfalls ; 

These joys unblamed, thy mystic soul may know ; 

These, unpolluted by an after-woe ; 

For Innocence, and Purity, combine 

To bless the worshipper at Nature's shrine. 

To these devoted, Genius, thou shalt prove 

A heaven, in solitude, of silent love. 



LINES 

TO THE SCENERY OF CUMBERLAND AND 

WESTMORELAND. 
Written at Barnwell, near Cambridge, April, 1800. 



To quit a work! where strong temptations try, 
And, since we cannot conquer, learn to fly. 

Goldsmith. 

Sin, has ne possim naturae adcedere partes, 
Frigidus obstiterit circum praecordia sanguis ; 
Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes ; 
Flumina amem silvasque inglorius. 

Georgicon Virgilii, lib. ii. 



Fair scenes, I may not see you, yet my heart 
From your enchantment will not long depart : 
I turn from man's unprofitable strife, 
From all the fruitless stir of polished life, 
To think on you ; to bid your prospects roll, — 
A wondrous vision, — o'er my gladden'd soul. 
Ah, scenes beloved, that I with you could stray, 
And loiter out with you the summer day ; 



LINES. 93 

Could I the rosy beams of morning view 
Shed on your gorgeous heights its magic hue ; 
Could I recline beneath your rocking woods, 
Whose secret shades, where solemn Fancy j 

broods, 
Shroud the deep murmurs of your mountain ' 

floods ; 

Or could I slumber on those banks which lave 
Their fairy verdure in the crystal wave 
Of many a Lake that lies beneath the sky 
In solitary, silent majesty : 
Your visionary train of forms sublime 
Should wake the ardour of the lofty rhyme ; 
Should lift my soul above whate'er of low 
It haply learned in other scenes to know. 
To you I turn ! — I turn from human lore : 
Of what the world affords I ask no more. 
To me kind Heaven has given a faithful friend, 
And competence : no more Heaven's self can 

send! 
Now, all I seek is peace, a silent nook, 
Whence, with unruffled spirit, I may look 
On all those tempests of life's early morn, 
That wrung a heart by restless passion torn ; 
And told, did pitying Heaven not interpose, 
Of short-liv'd raptures, and of fatal woes. 



94 LINES. 

Ah, scenes of peace ! — Might 1 your charms 
explore, 
Devote to nature, I would ask no more ! 
Might I with you consume my daily bread, 
And pillow nightly my reposing head ; 
With you awake at morning's breezy voice, 
And in my calm course, like yon sun,* rejoice ; 
Might I with you wear out the sultry day 
Viewing your wonders in the noon-tide ray ; 
With you repose at shadowy even-tide, 
And list her meek songs by some wild brook's 

side ; 
Or many a cloud of lurid red descry, 
Weaving bright visions for the poet's eye : 
Might I, when April's mildest evenings seem 
Like some pale mourner's earliest smiles to 

gleam, 
View the soft azure of her dewy cloud 
With faint flush tinged the silent landscape 

shroud ; 
Oh ! would kind Heaven on me such scenes be- 
stow, 
'Twould give a comfort to each parted woe. 

* In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which 
is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and re- 
joiceth'as a strong man to run his course. — Psalm 19th, 
Verses 4th and 5tb. 



LINES. 95 

Here, as I welcome morning's silken ray, 

And drink the spirit of the vernal day, 

And turn with anxious thought, mine eyes 

around, 
To catch whate'er in this bleak waste is found ; 
If chance the heathy hill at distance rise 
Bath'd in the aerial brightness of the skies ; 
Or winnowing zephyr of the fruitful west 
Shed healthy freshness on my weary breast ; 
If chance a clear brook musically flow 
Adown some nameless mead, where willows 

grow, 
Along whose mossy banks of tenderest green 
The earliest violets of the year are seen, 
And many a daisy, mixed with primrose pale, 
Bends at the touch of spring's rejoicing gale, 
The gale which loves to trace the streamlet's 

source, 
And steals as wedded to its nameless course ; 
If chance a cot, beneath some bowery oak, 
Send up in silence its pale wreath of smoke ;* 
If sudden noon-beams, like enchantment, wake 
The voice of sylvan mirth from mead or brake ; 

* And wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees. 

See Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. 



96 LINES. 

If dewy meads with bright luxuriance glow, 
And every flower with new-born radiance blow ; 
If chance a village church, or village cot, 
Mark the embowered hamlet's peaceful spot, 
Where waves the elm beside the churchyard 

wall, 
Vocal with red-breast's trill, or sparrow's call ; 
Around whose hollow trunk, beneath whose shade, 
Stands the known bench for rustic converse made ; 
And stretches towards the road the slanting 

green, 
Where village hinds in pastime oft are seen ; 
While merry bells in tuneful peals convey 
The jocund news of heartsome holiday : 
If chance these rustic sounds and shapes impart, 
Some comfort to my nature-kindling heart, 
Clothed in the wildness of poetic light, 
Your brighter wonders sweep before my sight 

The little hill, at distance seen to rise, 
Of mountain speaks, whose summits pierce th« 

skies; 
Brings to my view the majesty of forms, 
Which bid defiance to the North's bleak storms; 
The rising zephyr tells of sportive gales, 
That curl your lakes and fan your laughing vales ; 



LINES. D7 

Or, borne aloft on pinion more sublime, 

To the peaked cliff's aerial summit climb ; 

The crystal stream which winds where willows 

grow* 
With more than mountain murmurs seems to 

flow, 
Near its smooth lapse, and sand of sunny dyes, 
The chasm yawns, and rock-piled summits rise ; 
And o'er its vacant banks does fancy see 
The stormy torrent's fearful imagery, 
The peaceful cottage to my soul recalls 
Your more fantastic shed, with leafy walls, 
Where I, with Love, would gladly wear away 
What more remains of life's mysterious day : 
It brings the little hut, the nameless stream, 
Where Hope might ponder on her softest theme ; 
It brings the mead that spreads before the door, 
Its cheerful verdure, and its flowery store ; 
It brings the woods above the roof that rise, 
Whence many a glad bird's song salutes the 

skies ; 
It brings the garden prankt with many a flower, 
The sacred transports of the evening bower, 
Where, clothed in peacefulness, my soul should 

prove 
The father's fondness, and the husband's love : 

H 



98 LINES. 

It brings with all its charms the imaged cell. 
Which hopeful fancy fears to love too well ! 

As yet this must not be ! my weary feet, 
Must still awhile toil on where proud men greet. 
The obtrusive world's unprofitable load 
Must still with many a pang my bosom goad : 
Yet grant, oh Heaven, a spirit to endure, 
Not yield ; though art in every shape allure. 
E'en now I feel within my burthen'd mind 
An anxious trouble 'mid your charms to find, 
That day of rest from each polluting thing, 
Which silence, solitude, and nature bring ; 
And every shape and sound that here annoy 
Speak, though in accents rude, of future joy. 



LINES 



TO THE SABBATH. 



April 23, 1803. 

The Author is well aware that, as far as the 
following Poem appears to be argumentative, 
the principle which it inculcates is indefensible : 
it seems like inferring that, because an institu- 
tion may be abused, however excellent it may 
be in its design, it should not be used. 

Wherever, whenever, and on whatsoever oc- 
casion, human beings meet together, they will 
carry human passions with them ; to church, as 
well as to market ; to the meeting-house, as well 
as to the ball-room : the good done by means of 
positive religious rites is prodigious; and it would 
be difficult to make out a case of any counter- 
balancing evil of which they are the causey 
therefore let it not be supposed that, because 
h 2 



100 LINES 

the Author in the following Poem satirizes the 
intrusion of vulgar passions within the sacred 
threshold, he no longer wishes that threshold to 
be passed : on the other hand, he only laments 
that it is not more universally passed, as such a 
phenomenon would be one of the most conclusive 
prognostics that those very passions which he 
has described were on the decline. In one word, 
let the following poem be considered rather as a 
picture, than as an enunciation of principles.* 



Ah, holy day, I love to hear the chime * 
Of merry bells that usher in thy morn : 
The rustic trimly clad, the rural lass, 
Delight my heart. I love to see them speed, 
Along the meadow pathway, to the style 
That bounds the churchyard. The suspense 
Of toil, the universal quietude 

* The author might add, that even the poet, par excel* 
lence religious, Cowper, might be deemed irreligious, if to 
satirize the abuse of religious institutions, render a man 
obnoxious to such an epithet. See his description of the 
coxcomb parson, and various other passages in hU poems.. 



TO THE SABBATH. 101 

That dwells on all things, quietude from sounds 
Of human labour, shed a pleasing calm. 
Nature alone puts forth her voice to-day, 
The joyous birds, the bleat of sportive lambs, 
The low of cattle, zephyrs breathing peace, 
And health ; the music of the woods that wave 
Their dancing heads, and vocal, as they wave, 
With sounds like those breath'd from the iEolian 

lyre, 
When on its trembling strings the faint breeze 

pants, 
Or ocean's deeper voice from distance heard ; 
The gratulation of a thousand streams 
Sparkling like crystal to the glorious sun : — 
All t&ese unite in choral harmony : 
And frivolous art withdraws the obtrusive strife, 
That Nature's song may reach the ear of all. 

Haste, let me join the comely throng that 

seeks 
The House of God : there be my prayer breathed 

forth 
With more expressive accent, and the song 
Of praise ascend more ardent, with the hymn 
Mingled of countless grateful spirits : there 



102 LINES 

The decent rite, the anthem's chaunted lay, 

The hallowed vestment, and the sacred grace 

Of hoar antiquity's religious garb, 

Shall aid the pious feeling, and express 

The shapeless fervours of abstracted love, 

Devotion's undefined extasy 

In saintly forms of import well conceived. 

Vain dream, alas ! for though the form may 
speak 
The inward sentiment that now disturbs 
The o'ercharged heart, — though all inanimate 

things, 
The decent rite, the anthem's chanted lay, 
The hallowed vestment, and the sacred grace 
Of hoar antiquity's religious garb,— 
Though to the feeling heart when, undisturbed, 
It contemplates the scene, an energy 
May seem to breathe within the gothic walls, 
Tilling the sanctuary, like that of old, 
With an invisible, present Deity : — 
Though all the circumstance of things unite 
To aid profound impression, they unite 
In vain; for what can inert objects do, 
Mute and inanimate, when all the soul, 



TO THE SABBATH. 103 

The spirit of the assembly, counteract 
Their weak, inefficacious agency. 

Where does the dowager, seldom visible, 
Come forth with all her " honours thick upon 

her," 
Chariot, and footman, with embroidered gold, 
Flying, with prayer-book in his hand, to ope 
The already unclasped pew, and shewing wide 
To the abashed assembly, she can keep 
Menials for vanity as well as use ? — at church. 
Where does the importance of the country 

squire, 
Hedged in the immunities of his kingly pew, 
Find a fit scene of action ? — at his church. 
Where does the high-bred lady condescend 
To exhibit all her store, of courtly airs, 
Her nods, grimace, and regulated smiles, 
And all precedency's theatric forms ? — 
At church.- — Where does the giddy serving-maid, 
Or farmer's daughter, love to expose the charm 
Of ribbands, hats, and lace, that Folly's food 
Which will ere long to ruin tempt her heart? 
At church. — Say, where do vanity and pride, 
Pretence, and sly hypocrisy resort ? — 
To church : — and where, if piety be found, 



104 LINES 

Simple, with cheek bedewed with contrite tears, 
Will flinty scoffers point and smile ? — at church. 

Mark the sleek pastor, how he hurries through 
The sacred office ! The simplicity 
Of gospel days, the tongue that utters things 
Accordant with the heart, the heart that feels 
Accordant to the law and testimony — 
Where are they found? The pompous hierophant 
Hiding beneath professional pretence 
The love of power ; or the coxcomb, pert, 
Scented, accomplished, as the spruce gallant — 
Too oft characterize the anointed band. 

I know that there are some who bear the 
mark 
Of true apostleship, who feel for souls, 
Weep for the wandering, pray for the distress'd, 
And, interceding, stand between their God 
And many a trembling sinner ; of their flock 
The spiritual fathers ; when occasion bids, 
The temporal fathers too ; weeping to see 
The havock and disorder vice has made, 
They bear a balm for every human wound. 
But these how few ! and he that deeply feels 
The worth of piety, that simply longs 



TO THE SABBATH. 105 

To utter, what he cannot bear to keep 
In selfish silence, whither shall he fly 
If Sanctity, Simplicity, and Love, 
Pity, and Mercy, Truth without pretence, 
Be qualities to spiritual fellowship 
Essential, indispensible esteemed. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT, IN A MOUN- 
TAINOUS COUNTRY. 



Nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit. 



26th April, 1803. 

Driven from the sweet society of man, 
Where shall the solitary being find 
Companions for his thoughts, associates 
Meet and instructive ? — May the simple lay 
Point out to those by adverse circumstance, 
And manifold adventure, separate 
From cheerful haunts of man, to those divorc'd 
For ever from the smiles of fickle fortune, 
Haply some soothing solaces of pain, 
Some secret sources of concealed delight, 
Innocent, yet ennobling, free to all, 
And independent of another's will. 



LINES 107 

Man hath an eye to see ; but, indisposed, 
Neglects the gift, save in the gaudy scene 
Of glittering art. But there are forms unknown, 
Save to the watchful, meditative eye, 
Which yield sincere delight. The harmonious 

scenes 
Of nature, and the harmonious scenes of art, — 
Where modest art, not striving for a vain 
Pre-eminence, is nature's minister, — 
Affect a feeling deeper than the sense 
Of beauty : thoughts of moral good they raise, 
Visions of innocence, and holy peace ; 
Not those fantastic dreams of old Romance, 
And pastoral Folly ; these severe and pure, 
As those enervating, corrupt, inane. 

Can heart unmoved, that hath a sentiment 
Of goodness left, the cottager behold, 
Who duly to his toil goes forth at morn, 
And brings at close of each laborious week 
His hard-earned pittance ; while his partner's 

thrift 
In wholesome fare discreetly parcels out 
The fruit of honest industry. His babes 
Cleanly, though coarsely clad, his neat fire-side, 
Bespeak accordant industry at home ; 



108 LINES 

And save when sickness visits — common foe 

Of rich and poor — the unregarded hut, 

Where dwells this humble pair, go when you 

will, 
Your eyes may feast upon a scene of peace. 

Nor do domestic scenes in rural life 
Alone delight : the grey stone church, the cot 
Of rudest fabric, or the pastoral farm, 
Placed midway on some tempest-howling hill, 
Protected solemnly by ancient pines, 
Are not unnoticed by the poet's eye, 
Nor by his heart unfelt.* There is a scene 
To which I often turn ; the rustic bridge 
'Neath whose grey arch, in days of wintry gloom, 
Whitens far off the torrent's foam ; the bridge ; 
The inn for tired foot-passenger, who haunts 
These seldom trodden scenes ; the village school, 
The village green, where little rustics sport, 
And dance, and sing ; the mill, the waterfall, 
Make up the measure of its simple charms ; 

* This is as exact a description, as it is in the power of 
the Author to give, of a scene on which a little knot of 
buildings is collected together, sitnated about two miles 
from Ambleside, Westmoreland, and called Skelwith 
Bridge, 



WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT. 109 

But, these all lie embosomed where the swell 
Of mighty mountains, and untravelled hills, 
Protects them from the intrusive eye of man, 
And wanton Art's capriciousness : this knot 
Of little dwellings, should the night o'ertake 
The weary mountaineer, with glimmering light 
Might haply cheer the wanderer: should his 

hand 
The latch uplift, a cordial welcome there 
Might chance await his weary form ; perchance 
The foaming can, the gossip's merry tale, 
The blazing hearth, and kind officiousness, 
Might rouse the sense of long-forgotten joy. 

*Mark yon grey scar, where, from the rifted 
cliff, 
The holly, birch, the oak, the yew, and ash, 
Start ; while the huge mass of that hanging rock, 
Cloathed with the ivy's mantling evergreen, 
Resembles most some fortress imminent, 
Or tower of ancient castle, piled alone 

* Tiiis description also is topographically exact. The 
scene is to be found on the right hand side of the river 
Brathay, about a mile and a half from Ambleside, and 
is seen to most advantage from the opposite side of that 
stream. 



110 LINES 

On pathless height abrupt, 'mid woods and wilds, 

And savage precipice : in wintry hours 

When, like dishevelled tresses, brown sere 

leaves, — 
'Mid here and there some haply interspersed 
Of sickly yellow, some of blacker dye, — 
Rustling with bleak winds, shiver on the oak, 
Still the green ivy mantles the grey scar, 
And shadowy pines wave darkling ; mingled hues 
From tawny oak, the ivy, rock, and pine, 
Enrich the wild, fantastic imagery. 
But when the smiling hours of spring advance, 
And vernal suns arise, the slender birth 
First grateful yields its bloom to fostering gales 
Trembling with fairy leaf of feathery gold : 
Its silvery stems innumerable, like shafts 
Taper and glossy, mock the forest's gloom, 
And through its depths conspicuously shine, 
As polished pillars of white marble, seen 
At night, in some old temple's vast expanse. 

Nor, leaving loftier scenes, in days of spring, 
Do shady lanes retired, a mean delight 
Afford ; — 'mid leafy thicket, plume-like fern, 
On mossy bank, there pale primroses peep ; 
The harebell, orchis, and wild strawberry, 



WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT. Ill 

Anemone ; the scented violet, 

Azure and white ; veronica, tho' last , 

Not least in loveliness, whose spikes are bathed 

In brightest blue transparency of Heaven. 

These are the forms which in his solitude 

Amuse the poet's mind, dispel his cares, 

And cheat away retirement's languid hours. 

Come, dear Sophia, let us wander forth, 
And taste the charms of nature : while our hearts 
Distend with mutual feeling, the warm tear 
Shall gush at thoughts of present happiness, 
And haply too the smile of gratitude 
Shall play upon our lips, and thankful throbs - 
Swell in each breast to Him, to whom we owe 
Escape from past perplexity and care. 



LINES 

WRITTEN 19th august, 1807. 



u For, who can enjoy the world without deceiving, or 
being deceived ?"— Mrs. Grant's Letters. 



Whence, and what are we? — Wherefore are 
we made 

The sport of passions that defy controul ? 
Why do these dreams of happiness invade, 

With ardent impulse, my aspiring soul ? 

Say, am 1 born to live the sport of dreams, 
Of lying dreams, that flatter, and that fly ? 

Are they illusive, these delicious gleams 

That prompt the soaring wish, the immortal 
sigh? 

I might be happy, could I cease to think, 
That all I have is but entrusted power ; 

I might be happy, could my reason wink 

At pleasure's thrill, and love's enraptured hour. 



LINES. 113 

I might be happy, could these conflicts cease, 
Or reason take possession of my soul ! 

Could stern resolve bid passion be at peace, 
And every struggle of my will controul. 

Why are we destined thus to wage a war ? 

Nor from the fated proof have power to fly ? 
Here, conscience, awful priestess ! cries, be- 
ware ! — 

There every sense is wooed by extasy I 

Is this thy destiny, Oh man ? — Are these 

The terms on which thy soul its life received ? 

Reason, thou canst not tell me how to appease 
This questioning of what may be believed ! 

Experience teacheth that the noblest mind, 
The pang that weans from life shall likeliest 
brave ! 

Here pause : — and with a faith devout, not blind, 
Implore thy God to pity and to save ! 



LINES 

ON AN HOUR-GLASS. 
Addressed to Miss H W- 



2Qth Jan. 1808. 

" When Time doth float on Pleasure's wing, 
And hours glide on, allur'd by joy, 

Reflection's sigh from thee shall spring, 
Thou little monitory toy ! 

" When anxious care doth ply the loom 
Of life, with fingers dull and slow, 

Thou shalt remind me that this gloom 
Came, and with changeful time will go." 

Thus Harriet whispered as the sand, 

Ebbed softly from her hour-glass near : 
A faithful friend could not withstand 

The occasion for a vow sincere. 

\ 



x' 



LINES ON AN HOUR-GLASS. 115 

(For as this toy, the welcome guest 
Of buoyant mirth or languid care, 

Doth solemn thoughts to one suggest, 
And to the other solace bear, — 

So she, disinterested friend, 

Has smiles for joy, for sorrow sighs ; 

Though still her inward feelings tend 
With sacred grief to sympathize). 

" Oh, may no present hour, attired 

In gloom, a prayer for change draw forth ! 

Yet each successive hour, inspireol 
By hope, exceed the last in worth : 

May fancy wreathe around this toy 
Blooms stolen from the Elysian clime ; 

And Peace, the monitor of Joy, 

Brood on the tranquil lapse of time ! 

These sands, that fall in silent showers, 
To their Jirst source we turn once more ; 

May friendship so for thee the hours 
Of youth, in distant age restore P 



I 2 






116 LINES ON AN HOUR-GLASS. 

Oh, Harriet, thoughtless of thy power ! 

And humble, useful glass, like thee, 
The highest blessing thou dost shower 

Unconscious of thy destiny. 

E'en as this toy, that through life's span 
The quick illapse of time revealed, 

Doth bring prime benefits to man — 
Till Time to Eternity doth yield; 

So of the virtues' holy train, 
Disinterested love shall call 

For Heaven's most gratulating strain — 
Till self be lost !— God all in all ! 



LINES, 

Written in consequence of hearing of a young 
Man that had voluntarily starved himself to 
death on Skiddaw, and who was found after his 
decease in a bed of turf piled with his own 
hands, previous to that event. 



29th June, 1808. 

What didst thou feel, thou poor unhappy youth. 
Ere on that sod thou laid'st thee down to rest? 
Ah, little know the children of this world 
What some are born to suffer ! Did some dread 
And perilous thought possess thy blasted mind ? 
Did fierce remorse assail thee ? Wert thou torn 
With fatal, incommunicable thoughts ? 
I pity thee, poor stranger ! In a world 
Fearful, a world of nameless phantoms framed, 
Was thy abode ! — Thou sawest not with eyes, 
Thou heardest not with ears, nor felt'st with 

touch, 
Like eyes, and ears, and touch of other men, 
Thine was a cruel insulation, thine 



118 LINES. 

A malady beyond the reach of love, 
Beyond the reach of melting sympathy. 

Oh, when Heaven wills that the external world 
And the internal world should be at war; 
When Heaven suffers that sensation's chords 
Shall all be out of tune ; when every sense 
At variance with the other, like a wrench'd 
And shattered instrument of music, yields 
A harsh report of discontinuous pangs, 
As infinite in number as in fear, 
To the universal influences of life, 
What does not man endure ! — Yet man e'en then 
Perchance has somewhat of the flush of health, 
Has strength of muscle, and the swelling limb, 
So he is pitied not ! Though if he smile, 
His smile like wandering spectre of the night, 
Apparent in some beauteous maiden's shape, 
Fills with more deadly chill, because it wears 
The form of joy in circumstance of woe !— 
Though if he speak, the incongruous attempt 
Betrays the treachery of his voiceless thought ! 
His words are like the sound of crazy bells, 
Swinging in open air, no longer pealed 
By hands accordant ; but the tempest wakes 
Or sullen breeze, when nightly visitant, 



LINES. 119 

Strange discord from their hoarse and iron 

tongues ! 
His accents, unaccountably impelled, 
Or rush with fearful spontaneity, 
Or languidly eke out their dying tones ; 
And sentences half finished, broken words, 
Abrupt transitions, discontinuous thought, 
Of intellectual alienation tell. 
Say, fared it so with thee ? Then be at peace ! 
And may the God the fortitude who gave 
To bear thy silent voluntary pangs, 
Receive thee in the arms of pitying love. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN 29TH JULY, 1808. 



Oh Love, the bosom formed for thee 

No meaner joy can move ; 
Not to be loved is not to be, 

To him who knows to love. 

Tis not the rapturous transport sought, 

In passion's granted aim ; 
'Tis not the kiss with nectar fraught, 

The look without a name ; 

But 'tis the soft endearing sense, 

The wish with wish that blends, 
That to each word an influence 

Of fascination lends. 

'Tis the fond partial estimate, 

In confidence sublime ; 
The thought that swells with warmth so great, 

That reason seems a crime. 



LINES. 121 

TTis this, oh Love, or chiefly this, 
Which, for the once-loved breast, 

When ceases thy celestial bliss, 
Robs future life of rest. 






LINES 



TO MY CHILDREN. 



Written under the Influence of great Depression of Spirits, 
11th June, 1819. 



Heu ! quam minus est reliquis versari, quam vestroriim 
memiuisse. 



My babes, no more I'll behold ye* 
Little think ye how he ye once lov'd, 

Your father who oft did enfold ye, 
With all that a parent e'er proved. 

How with many a pang he is saddened, 

How many a tear he has shed, 
For the eight human blossoms that gladden'd 

His path, and his table, and bed. 



LINES TO MY CHILDREN. 123 

None knows what a fond parent smothers, 

Save he who a parent has been, 
Who once more, in his daughters, their mother's, 

In his boys has his own image seen ! 

And who Can I finish my story ? 

Has seen them all shrink from his grasp ; 

Departed the crown of his glory, 

No wife, and no children to clasp ! — 

By all the dear names I have utter'd, 

By all the most sacred caresses, 
By the frolicksome nothings I've mutter'd, 

In a mood that sheds tears while it blesses ; 

By the kisses so fond I have given, 

By the plump little arm's cleaving twine, 

By the bright eye, whose language was heaven, 
By the rose on the cheek pressed to mine ; 

By its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit; — 
By the little feet's fond interlacing, 

While others pressed forward to inherit 
The place of the one thus embracing ; 



124 LINES 

By the breast that with pleasure was troubled, 
Since no words were to speak it availing ; 

Till the bliss of the heart was redoubled 
As in smiles on the lips 'twas exhaling; 

By the girl,* who, to sleep when consign'd, 
The promised kiss still recollected ; 

And no sleep on her pillow could find, 
If her father's farewel were neglected ; 

Who asked me, when infancy's terrors 

Assail'd her, to sit by her bed ; 
And for the past day's little errors 

On my cheek tears of penitence shed. 

By those innocent tears of repentance, 
More pure e'en than smiles without sin, 

Since they mark with what delicate sentence 
Childhood's conscience pronounces within. 

By the dear little forms, one by one, 

Some in beds closely coupled half-sleeping, 

While the cribb'd infant nestled alone — 
Whose heads at my coming all peeping, 

* Sophia. 



TO MY CHILDREN. 125 

Betrayed that the pulse of each heart 

Of my feet's stealing fall knew the speech ; 

While all would not let me depart, 
Till the kiss was bestowed upon each ; 

By the boy,* who, when walking and musing, 

And thinking myself quite alone, 
Would follow the path I was chusing, — 

And thrust his dear hand in my own ; 

(Joy more welcome because unexpected, 

By all this fond store of delights, 
Which, in sullen mood, had I neglected, 

Every curse with which Heaven requites. 

Were never sufficient for crushing 
A churl so malign and hard-hearted) 

But by the warm tears that are gushing, 
As I think of the joys that are parted; 

Were ye not as the rays that are twinkling 
On the waves of some clear haunted stream, 

Were ye not as the stars that are sprinkling 
Night's firmament dark without them ? 

* Owen, 



126 LINES TO MY CHILDREN. 

My forebodings then hear ! — By each one 
Of the dear dreams through which I have tra- 
vell'd, 
The cup of enjoyment from none 
Can I take, till the spells, one by one, 
Which have withered ye all, be unravelVd. 



STANZAS. 

LET THE READER DETERMINE THEIR TITLE. 
Written 27th and 28th June, 1819. 



" I have, of late, lost all my mirth, foregone all 
custom of exercise ; and, indeed, it goes so hea- 
vily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, 
the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; 
this most excellent canopy, the air, this brave 
o'erhanging, this majestical roof, look you, fretted 
with golden fires, why, it appears no other thing 
to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of 
vapours." — Shakspeare. — Hamlet. 



Oh, that a being in this latter time 

Lived such as poets in their witching lays, 

Feigned were their demi-gods in nature's prime ! 
The Dryad sheltered from noon's scorching 
rays 



128 STANZAS. 

By leafy canopy ; — the Naiad's days 

Stealing by gently wedded to some spring, 

In pure connatural essence ; — while the haze 
Of twilight in the vale is lingering, 

The Oread from mountain top the sun-rise wel- 
coming. 

Oh, that a man might hope to pass his life, 
Where through lime, beech, and alder, the 
proud sun 
His leafy grot scarce visited ; — where strife 
Is known not ; — to absolve — to impeach him 
none ; — 
His moral life, and that of nature, one : — 
Where fragrant thyme, and crisped heath- 
bells prank 
The ground, all memory of the world to shun, 
And piercing, while his ears heaven's music 
drink, 
Nature's profoundest depths, the God of Nature 
thank. 

To drink the pure crystalline well, to lave 
His strong limbs in some Naiad haunted 
stream, 
On that sod, which one day might be his grave, 
To shelter him from noon-tide's scorching 
beam, 



STANZAS, 128 

In cool recess ; — and thus, while he might dream 
His life away, his appetite assuaged 

JJy kerneird fruits with which the earth doth 
teem ; — 
Forget that he hath been where men engaged 

In civilized contention, foamed and raged. 

Oh, that the wild bee, who, with busy wing, 

Hums, as she travels on from flower to flower; 
Oh, that the lark that now is carolling 

Above yon ancient ivy-mantled tower ; 
Oh, that the stock-dove from her ancient bower, 

The gurgling fall of waters ; the deep sound 
Of pines, whose film-like leaves scarce own the 
power 
Of panting breeze, most like the voice pro- 
found 
Of ocean, when its roar, by distance, is half- 
drowned : 

Oh, that the bleat of lambs, the shepherd's reed, 
The tinkling bell which warns the flock to 
fold; 

Oh, that the harmonies we little heed, 
Eternal harmonies, and manifold. 

K 



130 STANZAS. 

Throughout God's works in pathless mazes 
rolled, 
AH concords that in heaven and earth delight, 
Sweet to the sense of hearing, as we hold 

The form of beauty to the lover's sight, — 
Oh! that in one vast chorus these would all 
unite I 

My Godl this world's a prison-house to some ; 
And yet to those who cannot prize its trea- 
sure, 
It will not suffer them in peace to roam 

Far from its perturbation and its pleasure. 
No ! though ye make a compact with its mea- 
sure, — 
Except to one or two by fortune blest ! — 
Twill only mock your efforts; thus your leisure, 

Yielded to her, becomes a sad unrest ; — 
It pays the fool the least that worships her the 
best. 

Yet, on the other hand, if ye forego 

Her haunts, and all her trammels set aside, 

Though 'tis her joy ungratefully to throw 
Scorn on her slaves, her vassals to deride,— 



STANZAS. 131 

" Hewers of wood, drawers of water," plied 
With daily drudgery know this truth full well — 

She will from pole to pole, through time and 
tide, 
Still follow you with persecuting spell, 

And by her whispers foul, make solitude a hell. 

Therefore breathed I this prayer, that, as in 
years 
Long parted, beings were supposed to live 
Exempt from human ties ; — from human tears, 
And human joys; — endowed with a reprieve 
From friends to flatter, or foes to forgive ; — 

So it might fare with me ! — Oh, Liberty, 
I ask for thee alone ; — with thee to weave 
Quaint rhymes, to breathe the air, were heaven 
to me; 
To dream myself the only living thing, save 
thee! 

When Heaven has granted thought and energy, 

Passion, Imagination, Fancy, Love, 
Pleasures and pains, hopes, fears, that will not 
die, 
Tis surely hard to be condemned to rove 
k 2 



132 STANZAS* 

In a perpetual wilderness ; to move 
Unblest by freedom, and humanity ;— 

I blame not those for whom the world hath wove, 
Spells that to them are best reality — 

Some are there 'twill not serve, nor yet will let 
them fly. 

Oh ! for an island in the boundless deep ! 

Where rumour of the world might never come ; 
Oh, for a cave where weltering waves might keep 
Eternal music !— round which, night-winds 
roam 
Incessantly, mixed with the surging foam ; 
And from their union bring strange sounds to 
birth ; — 
Oh, could 1 rest in such an uncouth home, 
No foes except the elements ; — the earth, 
The air;— though sad, I'd learn to make with 
them strange mirth. 

I'd learn the voices of all winds that are ; 

The music of all waters : and the rude 
Flowers of this isle, although both " wild and 
rare," 

Should be by me with sympathy endued. 



STANZAS. 133 

I would have lovers in my solitude ; 

Could animal being be sustained, the mind 
Such is her energy, would find all good ; 

And to her destiny eftsoons resigned, 
In solitude would learn the infinite to find. 

Oh ! thou first Cause, thou giver of each bless- 
ing, 
E'en were / cursed, so vain a thing I'm not 
As to suppose nothing is worth possessing ; — 

That misery's the universal lot. 
A cold hand lies on me ; — a weight ; — from 
what, 
Whence, where, or how, — boots it not here to 
tell: 
I only wish that I could be forgot, 

And that I might inherit some small cell, 
With blessings short of heaven, and curses short 
of hell. 

This medium is my prayer. Thought, gift di- 
vine ! 

When first — like Alpheus, sung by bards of old, 
Who sank into the earth, that he might join 

The adored Arethuse ; — the bedded hold 



134 STANZAS. 

Through which thy rich and copious treasures 
roll'd, 

Is shaken with the tempest of despair ; 
And when first sapped by sorrows manifold, 

Thy streams no longer murmur clear and fair, 
Buried in silent caves of agony and care ; 

When first, instead of each translucent rill, 

Fed by thy parent fount, which issued forth, 
Wandering playfully " in its own sweet will ;" 
Instead of dimpling brooks, whose voice was 
mirth ; 
Clear waves, that to and fro upon the earth 
Ran amid grass, and flowers, and plume-like 
ferns, 
As they were free by charter of their birth ; 

Or clear tide lapsing from thy copious urns, 
So calm, the bending grass but tells one where 
it turns ; 

When first, instead of such prodigious wealth, 
Waters that stray through meads, and while 
they stray, 

So silently they flow, and with such stealth, 
The richer green — the lustier flowers betray 



STANZAS. 135 

Alone, the secret of their noiseless way : 
While others take a more fantastic course, 

And with such involutions sing and play 

Twixt sandy banks, or with a note more hoarse, 

O'er rocks and sparry beds, forgetful of their 
source, 

That one might deem they were without a law, 

Lawless as winds, if winds could be, or ere 
The Almighty architect impressed an awe 

On nature's wildest freebooters; — or were, 
lake as is sung of the crystalline sphere, — 

Involved in maze of such perplexity, 
That e'en that skill which made intention clear, 

So intricate was it, one might deny 
The very law itself from its transcendency.* 

When first, I say — I've played the truant long, 
From the theme I had espoused — the streams 
of thought 
Are poisoned at their source ; the bosom wrung 
With tempests that contained them, — care dis- 
traught, 



-Mazes intricate, 



Eccentric, intervolved, yet regular, 

Then most, when most irregular they seem.— Milton. 



136 STANZAS. 

Man prays for death ; he cannot then be brought 
To meek submission : — all is anarchy 

Within ; — with insurrection* fraught, 

His state is like a kingdom, where the die 

Is hazarded, of sacrilegious victory. 

But, let hours, days, weeks, months, and years 
pass by, 
A sullen acquiescence then succeeds, 
And the first proof of nature's sanity 

Is, that the mind its own condition heeds : 
Though it be choaked with thorns, and clogged 
with weeds, 
A parent's fondness still it 'gins to feel 
For its own creations ; and to this succeeds 
Strongest imagination ; — the barbed steel 
From foes has pierced too deep for other men to 
heal. 

* Between the acting of a dreadful thing, 
And the first motion, all the interim! 
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream; 
The genius, and the mortal instruments, 
Are then in council ; and the state of man 
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
The nature of an insurrection. 

Shakspeare. — Julius Catsar 



STANZAS. 137 

No ! still betwixt him and his fellow men 
The irrepassible gulph, when once passed, 
gapes ; 
Yet, though his thoughts, that creep as in a den 

The slimy insect, e'en in all their shapes 
Have nothing reconciling, yet escapes 

Nought that is harmful ; like the bloated toad, 
They are dark,, they are dreary, loathsome: hu- 
man apes 
Thence deem them poisonous : they are a weary 
load; 
And not the less since undeservedly bestowed. 

But oh, mistake them not! — They are free from 
ill! 
The seven-months' babe, whose little hand's 
at rest, 
While his warm lips imbibe the milky rill, 
Cushioned upon his mother's well-known 
breast, 
Is not more innocent of feeling, drest 

In any garb of hatred or of ire. — 
I speak of one I've known ; earth hath no rest 

For such as he : — no correspondent wire 
In any human breast can recognize the lyre, — 



138 STANZAS. 

like the lorn harp of Tara on the walls, 

Swept by the invisible breathings of the wind, 
When as that harp had ceased in Tara's halls, 

To pour the soul of harmony refin'd — 
That tells his fate. Strange melodies assigned 

To it, harsh discord seem to th' ears of all : 
Yet not a note doth breathe from it designed 

To give a pang : it mayn't be musical : — 
Well may a shattered lyre, a shattered bard 
befeU. 

Tones untranslateable should it discourse, 

When by its master touched; oh, deem not ye, 
Because ye know them not, and think them 
hoarse, 

That in those tones no mystery may be, 
Such as unravelled might give harmony 

To its wild cadences ! — Then let him sing ; 
And though his song please not, yet still if he 

Feels, while it floats around, as though a wing 
Protected him with tremulous faint o'ershadowing, 

Tis more than naked skies, and naked stars, 
Tis more than Heaven's canopy bestows, 

Tia more than storms,, and elemental wars, 
And murky clouds, winds, rain, sleet, hail, 
and snows, 



STANZAS. 139 

Think* not that I blame these. They are not my 
foes. 
I seek communion, covet sympathy, 
E'en with their wildest moods: — they suit my 
woes — 
I meant to say when souls from agony 
A little respite feel, souls will self-questioned be. 

And now, oh God ! e'en let my wish once more, 

Ere this lay cease, be to thy love confessed, 
Grant me to vegetate on some wild shore ; 

Since I cannot be happy, as the best 
I e'er can hope to be, let mine own breast 

Be to itself its sole companion ; — there, 
Though much of wretchedness, and much unrest 

Be housed, at least there need be no despair 
Trom that which I once deemed sole source of 
cureless care ; 

That in my poor thought was malignity, — 
I never wished to harm a living thing, — 

Pain was a frightful mystery to me ; 

I've often shudder'd at the moth's scorched 
wing; 

Oft from the path the snail or worm would fling, 

* I tax ye not, ye elements, with nnkindness. 

SHAKSPEARE. 



140 STANZAS. 

Doomed to the tread of careless passenger: — 
How* little dreamt I then this shuddering, 

From the heart's nice calculation, whence we 
infer 
Futurity, was my fate's harbinger. 

No ! — no ! — Oh God ! — If there be one beneath 

The cope of Heaven; or e'en in Heaven en- 
shrin'd, 
Who, with accusing voice, could dare to breathe 

That pang of body, or that pang of mind, 
From me resulting, were to them assign'd, 

With perverse wilfulness, when next I look 
Towards the starry vault, may I be blind ! 

Blot out my name from thy eternal book ! 
A shelter for my head let earth afford no nook! 

But since, on the other hand, I may proclaim 
That " peace on earth, and good-will towards 
men," 
Have, save through inadvertence, been the aim 
Which governed heart, and tongue, and act, 
and pen ; 
Why should I not, oh Father, once again 

* A sort of secret foreknowledge, which is, in fact, only 
a nice calculation made by the feelings, before we permit 
it to become an operation of the judgment. 

Canterbury Tales, by Miss Lee. 



STANZAS. 141 

End that some peace is yet in store for me ? 
Leave to me thought, oh leave to me a den, 

And then from agony to be set free 
Sufficeth for the heart broken by agony. 

Once more, oh Father, hear! — Thy will is 
power ! — 

Act, thy decision is ; — all, all is thine ! — 
The pangs that shake me, bodings that devour, 

Both how I agonize, and how T pine, 
Thou knowest well : and though each faltering 
line 

Of mine betray affliction's cleaving curse, 
Thou knowest well the torments that are mine 

As far exceed the pictures of my verse, 
As atoms are exceeded by the universe. 

Lays such as these might then seem roundelays, 

And madrigals, compared to truth's plain 
theme, 
To elegies, to epitaphs, on days, 

On friends, on joys, departed like a beam 
Of summer, or the lightning's trackless gleam : 

Oh, then, my humble prayer do not deny 
If I implore, or that the feverish dream 

Of life might end, or that in liberty 
Forgotten I might live, since unwept I must die. 



POEMS 



ON 



drift £>eatl) 



PRISCILLA FARMER; 



BY HER GRANDSON, 



CHARLES LLOYD. 



Death! thou hast visited that pleasant place ? 
Where in this hard world I have happiest been. 

Bowles. 



THIRD EDITION, 



145 



SONNET. 

The piteous sobs that choak the Virgin's breath, 
For him, the fair betrothed Youth, who lies 
Cold in the narrow dwelling ; or the cries 

With which a Mother wails her Darling's death; 

These from our Nature's common impulse spring 
Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piled earth, 
Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd 
Worth, 

If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing; 

If He recal in saddest minstrelsy 

Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest; 

Such Grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety ! 

And from the Almighty Father shall descend 
Comforts on his late Evening, whose young 
breast 

Mourns with no transient love the Aged Friend, 

& T. COLERIDGE. 



DEDICATORY LINES 

TO THE 

AUTHOR'S BROTHER. 



My James ! to whom can I more fitly bring 
These rhymes, which I have caroll'd sorrowing, 
Than to a Brother who did once possess 
With me an equal share of kindliness 
From Her departed ! and whose tears will swell 
At these, my dirgelike melodies, that tell J 

How good She was. — Thou sportedst once with 

me, 
A careless infant round her aged knee, 
And aye, at welcome eve didst haste to share 
Her pious greetings and her simple fare. 
When Manhood's maze, trac'd by wild-footed 

Hope, 
Seem'd all inviting, towards our upward slope 
How did she often turn her moisten'd eye, 
That, but for us, were fix'd beyond the sky ! 
L 2 



143 DEDICATORY LINES. 

And ah ! how feelingly would She express 
The aid that Virtue brings to Happiness ! 
And when She droop'd, we both, my James, 

did bend, 
O'er a lost Parent, Confessor, and Friend ! 

My Brother, I have sought that he who gave 
And took our Friend, her virtues may engrave 
Deep in our bosoms; as we journey on 
Cheerily sometimes, oftner woe-begone, 
Still we may think on her with holiest sighs, 
And " struggle to believe," from yonder skies, 
Her children She regards; and when we fare 
Hardly on this bleak road, our mutual prayer 
Shall rise, that we in heaven may repossess 
Our earliest Guide to heavenly happiness ! 

CHARLES LLOYD. 



149 



SONNET L 

My pleasant Home ! where erst when sad and 

faint 

I sought maternal friendship's sheltering arms, 

My pleasant Home ! where is the rev'renc'd 

Saint 

Whose presence gave thee thy peculiar charms? 

Ah me ! when slow th' accustom'd doors unfold, 

No more her looks affectionate and mild 
Beam on my burthen'd heart ! O, still and cold 
The cherish'd spot where Welcome sat and 
smil'd ! 
My spirit pines not nursing fancied ill ; 
Tis not the fev'rish and romantic tie 

Which now I weep dissever'd ; not a form 
That woke brief passion's desultory thrill : 
I mourn the Cherisher of Infancy ! 

The dear Protectress from life's morning 
storm ! 



15ft 



SONNET II. 

Oh, I have told thee every secret care ! 

And crept to thee when pale with sickliness ! 
Thou did'st provide my morrow's simple fare, 

And with meek love my elfin wrongs redress. 
My Grandmother ! when pondering all alone 

Fain would I list thy footstep ! but my call 

Thou dost not hear ; nor mark the tears that 
fall 
From my dim eyes! No, Thou art dead and 

gone ! 
How can I think that Thou didst mildly spread 

Thy feeble arms, and clasp me o'er and o'er 
Ere infant Gratitude one tear could shed ! 

How think of Thee, to whom its little store 
My bosom owes, nor tempted by Despair 
Mix busy anguish with imperfect prayer ! 



151 



SONNET 1IT. 

Written at the Hotwelh, near Bristol. 

Meek Friend ! I have been traversing the steep 
Where when a frolic boy with patient eye 

Thou heededst all my wand'rings, (I could weep 
To think perchance thy Shade might hover 
nigh, 

Marking thy alter'd Child) ; how little then 
Dream I, that Thou, a tenant of the grave, 
No more shouldst smile on me, when I might 
crave 

Some little solace 'mid the hum of men ! 

Those times had joys which I no more shall know, 
And e'en their saddest moments now seem 
sweet, 

Such comforts mingle with remember'd woe ! 
Now with this hope I prompt my onward feet, 

That He, who took Thee, pitying my lone heart, 

Will reunite us where Friends never part ! 



152 



SONNET IV. 

Erst when I wander'd far from those I lov'd, 
If weariness o'ertook me, if my heart 
Heav'd big with sympathy, and ach'd t'impart 
Its secret treasures, much have I been mov'd 
Thinking of those most dear ; and I have known 
The task how welcome, feelingly to pour 
Of youthful phantasies th' eccentric store 
Thro' the warm line : nor didst thou seldom own 
The tender gratulation, earliest Friend ! 
And now when heavily the lone hours roll 
Stealeth an Image on my cheated soul 
No other than Thyself! and I would send 
Tidings of love — till the mind starts from sleep 
As it had heard thy knell ! — I pause, and weep I 



153 



SONNET V. 



When that dear Saint my fancy has possessed, 
Cheating my griefs, and then to bitter tears 
Leaves me, I seek to calm my aching fears, 

Thinking how holily She still suppress'd 

Each dim disquietude, looking to Him 
The Friend of patient souls, who wait to hear 
The " still small voice" to forlorn Sorrow dear! 

Then do mine eyes with kindlier sadness swim : — 
And I implore, that She whom I did weep 
As I had had no hope, as on Death's sleep 

No more arose, when She shall liveliest dart 
On each tranc'd sense, may teach my prayers 

to rise 
Impassioned, and a purer sacrifice, 

Lifted by Her, the Priestess of my Heart ! 



154 



SONNET VI. 

When Thou that agonized Saint dost see 
Worn out, and trembling on the verge of death, 
Murmur meek praises with convulsed breath, 
And sanctify each rending agony, 
Deeming it a dim Minister of Grace 
Medicinal, and stealing her from all 
That subtly might her ling'ring spirit thrall ; 
When Thou dost read in her unearthly face, 
How She doth keep in thankful quietness 
Her patient soul, dar'st Thou thy best Friend 

deem 
As One deceiv'd by a most idle dream ? 
Ah, surely no ! if Thou at all possess 
A humanized heart ; e'en if thy mind 
Hate not the only hopes of humankind ! 



155 



SONNET VII. 

Oft when I brood on what my heart has felt, 
And think on former friends, of whom alas ! 
She the most dear, sleeps where th' autumnal 
grass 

To the wet night- wind flags, I inly melt; 

And oft I % seem (my spring-tide fled away ; 
While the heart's anguish darkens on my brow ) 
Likest the lone leaf on the wintry bough 

That pines for the glad season's parted ray ! 

Such thoughts as these, when the dull hours 
pass by 
Shroud them in hues of saddest sickliness ! 
Yet oft I wiselier muse, yea almost bless 

The shiverings of departed extasy ; 

Thinking that He who thus my spirit tries 

Draws it to Heaven a cleansed sacrifice ! 



150 



SONNET VIII. 



My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee ! 

Remembering how each eve I wont to give 
Thy due texts holily, while She did live, 
The pious Woman ! — What tho' for the meek 
Thou treasurest glad tidings, still to me 

Of her I lov'd thou dost so plainly speak, 
And kindling virtue dost so amply tell 
Of her most virtuous, that 'twere hard to quell 
The pang which thou wilt wake ! Yet, hallow'd 
book, 
Tho' for a time my bosom thou wilt wring, 
Thy great and precious promises will bring 

Best consolation ! Come then, I will look 
In thy long-clasped volume, there to find 
Haply, tho' lost her form, my best friend's mind ! 



157 



SONNET IX. 



When from my dreary home I first niov'd on, 
After my Friend was in her grave-clothes drest, 
A dim despondence on my spirit prest, 

As all my pleasant days were come and gone ! 

Strange whispers parted from th' entombing clay, 
The thin air murmur'd, each dumb object 

spake, 
Bidding my overwhelmed bosom ache : 

Oft did I look to Heaven, but could not pray ! 

" How shall I leave thee, quiet scene ?" said I, 
" How leave the passing breeze that loves to 

sweep 
" The holy sod where my due footsteps creep ? 

" The passing breeze? Twas She ! The Friend 
pass'd by !" 

But the time came ; the passing breeze I left ; 

" Farewell P I sigh'd, and seem'd of all bereft ! 



158 



SONNET X. 

Oh, She was almost speechless! nor could hold 
Awakening converse with me ! (I shall bless 
No more the modulated tenderness 
Of that dear voice !) Alas, 'twas shrunk and cold, 
Her honour'd face ! yet, when I sought to speak, 
Through her half-open'd eye-lids She did send 
Faint looks, that said " I would be yet thy 
friend ! ,? 
And (Oh, my choak'd breast!) e'en on that 

shrunk cheek 
I saw one slow tear roll ! my hand She took, 
Placing it on her heart — I heard her sigh, 
" Tis too, too much !" Twas Love's last agony ! 
I tore me from Her! Twas her latest look, 
Her latest accents — Oh, my heart, retain 
That look, those accents, till we meet again ! 



159 



SONNET XL 

As o'er the dying embers oft T cower, 
When my tir'd spirits rest, and my heart swells 
Lull'd by domestic quiet, Mem'ry dwells 

On that blest tide, when thou the evening hour 
Didst gladden : while upon th' accustomed 

chair 
I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there : 
Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees, 
Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees, 
O'er which exchanging souls we wont to bend! 
And as I lift my head, thy features send 
A cheering smile to me — but, in its flight 
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night 
Sweeps surlily ! starting, my fancy creeps 
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold corse' 
sleeps ! 



LINES 

Written on a Friday, the Day in each Week 
formerly devoted by the Author and his Bro- 
thers and Sisters to the Society of their Grand- 
mother. 



This is the day we children wont to go 

In best attire, with gay high-swelling hearts, 

And infant pride, to the belov'd repast 

Of her, our reverenc'd Grandmother ! the time 

By us, delighted infants, still was call'd 

An holiday ! E'en ere the shadowy morn 

Peep'd dimly thro' our half-drawn curtains, we 

Would tell each other of the day, and hail 

With one accord, and interchange of soul, 

The heartsome festival of home-born love ! 

Our matin task, with o'ercharg'd restless souls 
That wearily suppress'd joy's giddiness, 
How ill perform'd ! Learning's dull mockery o'er, 
How did we shout, and rend the air with cries 
Of glad deliverance ! For the hour was come, 



LINES. 161 

The hour of Joy! Faint-heard, the rumbling 

wheels 
Proclaim the kind conveyance sent by her, 
The watchful Friend, to bear the feeble ones : 
Perchance some babe that still in helplessness 
Clings to its Mother's breast, or one that left 
But now its Nurse's lap, another yet 
That scarcely lisps its benefactress' name, 
Yet calls itself, in pride of infancy, 
Woman or Man ! — Ah, enviable state I 
When, in simplicity of heart, we're pleased 
With misery-meaning names ! The mother still 
With kisses fond, or smiles of anxious hope, 
Tended affection's tott'ring troop : while we, 
By pedant watch'd, hurried along with step 
Measuring back half its way, all anxious now 
To reach the lov'd abode, yet oft repress'd 
By him, the surly Tyrant of those years, 
When freedom seems most precious. But the tree 
First seen, that screen'd that spot, how eagerly 
We hail'd it, beat our hearts, our froward steps 
Now quicken'd, now untractable, in spite 
Of threaten'd durance, bore us on, till soon, 
A happy train ! athwart the lawn we rushd, 
Mounted the steps, burst swiftly thro' each door 
In vain our course impeding, and at last 

M 



162 LINES, 

Threw our fond arms around the much-lov'd form 

That smil'd our welcome, bright'ning every face 

With kind reflection of propitious Love ! 

Oh ! 'twas a scene that fiU'd the happy heart ! 

A scene, which when my musing memory feigns, 

Starts a warm tear unwittingly, a sigh 

Rises within, for it will ne'er return ! 

The welcome o'er, and intercourse of looks 
Anxiously smiling, interrupted oft 
By quaint inquiry, and meek playfulness, 
Each hastens to his sport. This to a spot 
Trimly defended from the intruding step, 
Hight by the busy urchin, who had there 
Exhausted all his little store of taste, 
A Garden! — There he weekly brought some 

flower, 
Primrose or violet, or, of costlier kind, 
The rose tree, or the tulip's gaudy gloss : 
For all his scanty hoard unsparingly 
This tiny scene engross'd, the well-earn'd gift 
Was here expended, and he oft would gaze 
With big-swoln heart, exulting at the thought 
That he might call the spot belov'd his own! 

It was a fairy scene ! the utmost range 



LINES. 163 

Of some soft sylph that guards infantine bliss, 
And prompts its nascent dreams ! Aloft in air 
Some tempt th' adventurous swing, while others 

waft 
The shapely kite. Thus pleasing still and pleas'd 
The day pass'd on : the hospitable meal 
(Where circulated looks affectionate) 
Employ'd no tedious hour, for all around 
Was childish mirth, and warm solicitude ; 
So fled, 'twixt cares of friendliness and joys 
Heartfelt and unrestrained, all cheerily, 
In sanctity of bliss, the simple day ! 
Twere not misnam'd if call'd a little Sabbath ! 

To me, when frisking in the sports which now 
Memory tenacious dwells on, 'twas I ween 
A prodigality of bliss ! but, ah ! 
I elder than the train that gather'd there 
Joy's infant buds, earlier their blight deplor'd ! 
When ran the urchins to their sports, for me 
Ere youth to manhood all reluctantly 
Resign'd its sway ; or evanescent, ere 
The tremulous dimple to the rigid line, 
The woe-fix'd character of countenance, 
Had yielded quite ; how oft unblest and restless. 
Slow, and with ling'ring gaze reverted still, 
M 2 



164 LINES. 

IVe wander'd From the scene, the simple scene 
That once engross'd me wholly ; and would pine 
Troubled with wishes, and perplex'd desires, 
Then all mysterious. Often would I weep 
Still wond'ring at my tears, and sigh, and sigh — 
Yet could my fancy feign no rapt'ring object 
Apt for my hopes. Nor seldom would I brood 
On vision'd bliss seen dimly. Thus consum'd 
My days inactive : thus my infant powers 
Fed on imagination's airy stores, 
Till all reality was anguish ! Now 
Manhood advanc'd, bringing the unsumm'd ills 
Of Life, and bleak disaster claimed my tear 
While yet I wept o'er fancy-pictur'd woe. 

For She, the Friend, departed ! died, and left 
Her child but half matur'd ! (for manly years 
Produc'd not manly thought) — I can no more ! 
Farewell, best friend ! ah, holy Friend farewell ! 
This day was once with thee enjoy 'd, 'tis now 
In sad remembrance more than ever thine ! 



SONNETS. 



Ego, apis Matina? 
More, modoque, 
Grata carpentis thyma per laborem 
Flurimum, circa nemus uvidique 
Tiburis ripas, operosa parvus 
Carraina fingo. 

Hor. lib. iv. Ode 2. 



INTRODUCTION 



TO THE 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 



The following Sonnets can pretend to little more 
than to be commemorations of particular feelings, 
or particular scenes, with which, from time to 
time, the Author was more than usually impress- 
ed. The first eight Sonnets have appeared in 
former editions of the poems of the Author : — all 
the subsequent ones are now printed for the first 
time. 

In these, comprized in the latter collection, the 
Author has, with a very few exceptions, rigo- 
rously adhered to the repetition of rhymes found 
in all the sonnets of Italian Authors, from whom 
those of Great Britain have borrowed this species 
of composition. In his opinion, the Sonnet, from 
its brevity, is a poem so liable to be overlooked, 



168 

if not despised, that it is well, by connecting 
with its structure some artificial complexity, to 
give to it, independently of whatever poetic merit 
it may possess, the additional one of difficulty 
surmounted. A poem in three elegiac stanzas, 
with a couplet tacked to the end of them, like 
those to which Mrs. Charlotte Smith allows by 
courtesy the epithet of sonnet, is, in the opinion 
of the Author, rather an epigram. In the sonnet 
there should be a oneness of thought and feeling ; 
and this strict unity should pervade it from the 
beginning to the end: it should not conclude 
with a point ; but the same austere energy with 
which it is closed should be conspicuous in its 
first line, and should equally pervade it as a 
whole. 

It seems peculiarly adapted as a vehicle for 
commemorating the more interesting impressions 
of life : — the writer of it, if he have been accus- 
tomed to put down in this form his more vivid 
feelings, may look back upon a series of such 
compositions as containing a body of sentimental 
biography; and to him may be justly applied the 
description of Lucilius contained in the following 
lines of Horace : — 



169 

Hie velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim 
Credebat libris ; neque, si male gesserat, usquam 
Decurrens alio, neque, si bene ; quo fit, ut omnis 
Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella 
Vita sen is. 

The Author cannot so well express what fur- 
ther he may have to say on this subject, as by 
availing himself of the following paragraphs from 
the pen of Mr. Coleridge. 

** The sonnet is a small poem, in which some 
lonely feeling is developed. It is limited to a 
particular number of lines, in order that the 
reader's mind, having expected the close at the 
place in which he finds it, may rest satisfied; 
and that so the poem may acquire, as it were, a 
totality — in plainer phrase, may become a Whole. 
It is confined to fourteen lines, because as some 
particular number is necessary, and that particu- 
lar must be a small one, it may as well be four- 
teen as any other number. When no reason can 
be adduced against a thing, custom is a suf- 
ficient reason for it. Perhaps, if the sonnet were 
comprized in less than fourteen lines, it would 
become a serious epigram; if it extended to 
more, it would encroach on the province of the 



170 

Elegy. Poems, in which no lonely* feeling is 
developed, are not Sonnets, because the Author 
has chosen to write them in fourteen lines : they 
should rather be entitled Odes, or Songs, or In- 
scriptions. 

" In a sonnet, then, we require a development 
of some lonely feeling, by whatever cause it may 
have been excited, in which moral sentiments, 
affections, or feelings, are deduced from, and 
associated with, the scenery of Nature. Such 
compositions generate a habit of thought highly 
favourable to delicacy of character. They create 
a sweet and indissoluble union between the intel- 
lectual and the material world. Easily remem- 
bered from their briefness, and interesting alike 
to the eye and the affections, these are the 
poems which we can ' lay up in our heart, and 
in our soul,' and repeat them * when we walk 
by the way, and when we lie down, and when 
we rise up.' " 

The author is sorry, after having made this 
beautiful extract from the Introduction to the 

* The Author supposes, that by " lonely" Mr. Cole- 
ridge means " single " feeling, not solitary feeling. 



171 

Sonnets of Mr. Coleridge, that he is obliged to 
confess that he totally differs from him in the 
opinion given in the succeeding part of that 
composition : after having laid it before his 
readers, he will conclude this little address with 
the reasons which induce him to dissent in opi- 
nion from so great an authority in almost all 
questions, and particularly in any one connected 
with poetry. 

" Respecting the metre of a sonnet, the writer 
should consult his own convenience. — Rhymes, 
many or few, or no rhymes at all — whatever the 
chastity of his ear may prefer, whatever the rapid 
expression of his feelings will permit ; — all these 
things are left at his own disposal. A sameness 
in the final sound of its words is the great and 
grievous defect of the Italian language. That 
rule, therefore, which the Italians have esta- 
blished, of exactly four different sounds in the 
sonnet, seems to have arisen from their wish to 
have as many, not from any dread of finding 
more. But, surely, it is ridiculous to make the 
defect of a foreign language a reason for our not 
availing ourselves of one of the marked excel- 
lences of our own. * The Sonnet/ says Preston, 
1 will ever be cultivated by those who write on 
tender pathetic subjects. It is peculiarly adapted 



172 

to the state of a man violently agitated by a real 
passion, and wanting composure and vigour of 
mind to methodize his thoughts. It is fitted to 
express a momentary burst of passion/ &c. 
Now, if there be one species of composition more 
difficult and artificial than another, it is an Eng- 
lish sonnet on the Italian model. Adapted to 
the expression of a real passion ! Express mo- 
mentary bursts of feeling in it ! I should sooner 
expect to write pathetic axes, or pour forth ex- 
tempore eggs and altars!" 

The Author replies, that experience affords 
the test by which this question is to be tried. 
Milton, Warton, and, later than these, Miss 
Seward, and especially Mr. Wordsworth, have 
produced beautiful, and the latter most sublime, 
English sonnets on the Italian modeL Where 
Mr. Coleridge learned that " the sameness in the 
final sounds of its words is the great and grievous 
defect of the Italian language," the Author can- 
not tell. No reader perceives such a defect in 
Ariosto, Tasso, or Dante. — It is certainly more 
easy to rhyme in that, than in almost any other 
language, since most of its words terminate with 
a vowel; but to this very circumstance, must the 
melody of that language be in some measure 
attributed. Again, the Author recurs to what 



173 

he has already said, that in a poem so tottering 
on the brink of insignificancy as is the sonnet, 
it is well, in order to give an artificial value to it, 
that in the mode of its composition some diffi- 
culty be overcome. Yet, were his experience 
allowed as of any weight, he should say, that 
when once the mind is resolved upon such a re- 
straint, no more difficulty is perceived in writing 
a sonnet on the Italian model, than on the more 
loose one of three elegiac stanzas and a couplet. 
— Besides, it should seem that the very argu- 
ment deduced from custom, in the composition 
of the sonnet, which Mr. Coleridge brings for the 
restriction of fourteen lines, might equally apply 
to the further one of confining the termination of 
its lines to four sounds, — taking for granted, that 
the author is justified in asserting, that, when the 
will is bent upon it, it is almost as easy to write 
a sonnet on the Italian model, as to compose 
one without any restraint than that of the fourteen 
lines, he shall, in further extenuation of the for- 
mer rule, assert with Mr. Coleridge, that " when 
no reason can be adduced against a thing, custom 
is a sufficient reason for it." — As for the quotation 
made by Mr. Coleridge from Mr. Preston, the 
language there adopted seems a begging of the 



174 



question ; a position is gratuitously laid down, in 
order to vindicate an inference. The author al- 
ways considered the sonnet rather as a severe 
and terse composition ; he never dreamed of it as 
peculiarly " fitted to express a momentary burst 
of passion." — Rather did he look upon it as a 
poem of a meditative and thoughtful cast. There 
would be no end to theoretical innovations, if 
persons are thus to frame factitious theories as 
an apology for them. 



SONNETS. 



SONNET I. 

TO CRAIG-MILLAR CASTLE. 

1796. 

This hoary labyrinth, the wreck of time, 

Solicitous, with timid step I tread ; 
Scale the stern battlement, or vent'rous climb, 

Where the rent watch-tower bows its grassy 
head : 
These dark, damp caverns breathe mysterious 
dread, 

Haply still foul with tinct of ancient crime ; 
Methinks some spirit of the ennobled dead 

High-bosom'd maid, or warrior chief sublime 
Haunts them : the flappings of the heavy bird 

Imagined warnings fearfully impart; 
And the dull breeze below, that feebly stirred, 

Seemed the deep breathing of an o'er-charged 
heart. 
Proud Tower, thy halls now stable the lean herd, 

And musing Mercy smiles that such thou art ! 



176 



SONNET II. 



TO SCOTLAND. 



1796. 



Scotland ! when thinking on each heathy hill, 
O'er whose bleak breast the billowy vapours 

sweep, 
While sullen winds imprisoned murmur deep 
'Mid their dim caves, such thoughts my bosom 

fill, 
I cannot chuse but sigh ! Oft wandering wild 
I've traced thy torrents to their haunted source, 
Whence down some huge rock with fantastic 
course, 
Their sheeted whiteness pouring, they beguiled 
The meek disheartened One, in solitude 

Who sought relief. Beneath some aged tree 
Thy white cots dimly seen yielded to me 
Solace most sweet: nor seldom have I viewed 
Their low thatch wishfully, and paused to bless 
The uncultur'd children of lone quietness. 



177 



SONNET III. 

TO NOVEMBER. 

1796. 

Dismal November ! me it sooths to view, 
At parting day, the scanty foliage fall 
From the wet fruit tree ; or the grey stone wall, 

Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew. 

To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth 
Enfold the neighbouring copse ; while, as they 

pass, 
The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass, 

Which wraps some blossom's unmatured birth. 

And through my cot's lone lattice glimmering 
grey 
Thy damp, chill evenings have a charm for me, 
Dismal November ! for strange vacancy 

Summoneth then my very heart away ! 

'Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell. 

And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell ! 



N 



178 



SONNET IV. 



1796. 
I HAD been sad, and drooped like one forlorn, 
When, as it might befall, I threw mine eye 
Athwart the sunny plain ; a breeze past by 
Pure and inspiriting, as newly born, 
The viewless messenger of some far glen ! 

It breathed, methought, faint tones of distant 
peace ! 
Sighing, I turned me from the haunts of men, 
And bodied forth some dell, where care might 
cease. 
I gazed, (a lone tear stealing down my cheek), 
And wished that I knew one whom I might 

throw 
Mine arms around, and snatching her from 

woe, 
Yield her my heart ; and in some simple cell 
Where I might win the solace of the meek, 
Pray for the hard world, where I once did 
dwell ! 



17U 



SONNET V. 

1796. 
When witching evening wore her shadows dim. 
Those big-swoln broodings oft I sought to wake . 
Which made my lone heart fancifully ache; 
And wayward tears unnoticed still would swim, 
Filling each "idle orb!" And I have loved 
This mystic transport ; me the wildering hour 
Soothed ; and dim vested Silence seemed to 
pour 
Balm, such as might befit a wretch that roved, 
| Sicklied with thought. Nor was not this my lot ! 
Now was I mazed with strange perplexities, 
And now to my tranced sprite such dreams 
would rise, 
That when I waked, I wept " to find them not!'* 
Wept that stern reason chased with blasting eye 
The feverish mind's fantastic imagery. 



N 2 



180 



SONNET VI. 

1796. 
*Twere well, methinks, in an indignant mood, 
When the heart droops unfriended, when man- 
kind, 
With their cold smiles, have duped thy honest 
mind, 
On the wet heath to stray, while dimly brood 
The gathered grey-mists on the distant hill : 
Drear should the prospect be, dreary and wide* 
No second living one be there espied, 
None save thyself; then would thy soul be still, 
Curbing its sorrows with a proud despair ! 
Then wouldst thou tread thy path with firmer 

pace, 
Nor let one scowl on thy resolved face 
Blab to the elements thy puny care ; 
But, soothed to think that solitude can bless, 
Muse on the world with lofty quietness. 



181 



SONNET VII. 

1796. 
Ye overflowings of a restless heart, 

Why thus torment me ? wishes undefin'd, 
Why through my breast so vehemently dart, 

Waking convulsed commotions of the mind ? 
Oh ! stubborn feelings, why do ye refuse 

The high-wrought intercourse of souls to 
bless ? 
Why pampering lonesome anguish idly muse, 

Or mutter workings of obscure distress ? 
Almighty Parent ! what a thing am I ! 

Shuddering with ecstacy, yet dumb the while ! 
Thou, only Thou, with chaos-piercing eye, 
Canst see me as I am ! My Father, rise 

Sublime in love, and with thy calming smile 
Hush Thou my spirit's stormy phantasies ! 



182 



SONNET VIII. 

1796. 
If the low breathings of the poor in heart, 
If the still gratitude of wretchedness 
Relieved when least expecting, have access 
*. To Thee, the Almighty Parent, Thou wilt dart 
Thy loving kindness on the offering meek 

My spirit brings, oppressed with thankfulness, 
At this lone hour : for Thou dost ever bless 
The stricken soul, that sighs and cannot speak. 
Omniscient Father ! I have been perplexed, 
With scoffers linked! yea, called them my 
friends, 
Who snare the soul ! But now, by doubt un- 
vexed, 
My heart uplifts itself; its aim extends 
To Heaven, where Thou tliy brighter dwelling 

hast, 
Oh Omnipresent Thou, first, midst, and last ! 



183 
SONNET IX. 

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1799. 

On seeing the Moon rise, among Clouds swiftly 
driven by the Wind, from behind a Hill across 
Ulswater. 

Black is the lake, and blacker still the sky, 

And lake and sky with hollow murmur moan : 
Scarce shakes a little star its locks on high; 

And Fear's fantastic images alone 
Crowd on the expectant spirit ! O'er the hill, 

That lifts above the waves its shaggy brow, 
Rises a solemn radiance : lovelier still, 

And lovelier, varying like enchantment, now 
It stands with burning glory, bright and deep, 

Like that which compasseth the eternal throne 
'Mid black pavillion'd clouds. So to the sleep 

Of Patriarch old ; when, pillowed on a stone, 
Was seen in vision, 'mid thick darkness given, 
God's fiery-winged troop, and God in Heaven ! 



184 

SONNET X. 

TO A SISTER. 

4th June, 1800. 
Oh ! shall we visit those high scenes again? 

Say, shall our spirits mount as we descry 
Those wavy mountains o'er the western main, 

'Mid the deep colours of the evening sky ? 
Say, shall we turn to them a grateful eye, 

And think of all our toil and ruth and pain, 
Since we with petulant inconstancy, 

Have sought for peace, where peace is sought 
in vain ? 
-How could we quit thee, Nature? quit thy forms 

Sublime and simple, pure and holy ever ? 
How cease to wonder at thy solemn storms, 

How from thy softer charms our spirit sever 
And hope (thee once enjoyed), where art de- 
forms, 
To find some solace for the base endeavor? 



185 
SONNET XL 

TO THE SAME. 

5th June, 1800. 
Say, dearest Sister, shall we once more hail 
The exalted thoughts, the emotions pure and 

high, 
That wake the soul to living ecstacy, 
While wandering Nature down thy wizard vale, 
Where comes no threat of pride, nor sorrow's 
tale, 
Where reels not pamper'd wealth obscenely by, 
That mar the bosom's deep serenity, 
And bid the springs of simple joyaunce fail ? 
Yes, Nature from her chosen dwelling place, 

Shall still with holiest privilege endow ; 
And, struck with love, to her benignant grace 

Thy soul shall dedicate each future vow ! 
While many a wilder breeze than thought can 
trace, 
Shedding new life, shall wanton round thy 
brow. 



186 
SONNET XII. 

TO THE SAME. 

5th June, 1800. 
Ah, go my Sister ! — do not vainly try 

To reconcile thy bosom's fervent beat 
To sordid Art's unnatural pageantry ! 

In spotless youth, thy fancy-guided feet, 
Have trod the plains, and search'd the mossy 
dells, 
The foaming mountain-torrent's mighty fall ; 
Have traced the haunts where Inspiration dwells ; 

And vainly, Maiden, would thy soul recall 
Feelings which Nature banished when she view'd 
Thy youth so vowed to mystic solitude, 

And o'er thy form her sacred mantle threw : 
" Henceforth," she cried, " Oh Maid of noble 

heart, 
" Should thou my hallow'd turf-built shrine de- 
sert, 
" Nought can thy vanished happiness renew." 



187 
SONNET XIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

6th June, 1800. 

Heed not the tongue, nor heed the brutal look; 
Pure Maiden heed them not, though they assail 
Thy simple ear with many a baneful tale ; 

Thine eye with insult thou disdainst to brook ! 

Keep that indignant soul ! and Folly, strook 
With shame, (if shame o'er Folly e'er prevail,) 
Shall hie him back with disappointment pale, 

And mutter fresh spells o'er his cursed book. 

Mutter'd in vain ! — For, disenchanted thou, 
No spell can wither thee, no charm can bind ; 

Nature hath heard thy youth's religious vow, 
And 'till thou art in her sanctuary shrin'd, 

She, watchful for her Child, shall chase away 

" Terrors by night, and enemies by day," 



188 
SONNET XIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

6th June, 1800. 
Wilt thou with me the rifted mountain seek ? 

Say, shall I feel thine arm entwin'd in mine, 
See nature's healthful blush adorn thy cheek, 

And catch the gleams of sympathy divine 

Intelligibly traced in looks like thine ? 
Oh, Maiden, shall our full hearts inly speak 

Thanks to the God of nature ? Near some pine, 
Which sobs, and waves, to gales from mountains 

bleak, 
Whose knotted roots transparent fountains lave, 

Say, shall we lift our eyes, and as we see 

Nature's unutterable majesty, 
The rock, the hill, the lake, the woods that wave, 
For all the wonders which his bounty gave, 

Praise Him who " habiteth eternity " 






189 
SONNET XV. 

TO THE SAME. 

6th June, 1800. 

Now fade the obtrusive colours of the day, 
Like liquid gold the smooth clear lake lies still, 
One streak of purple clouds above the hill 

Bests in the silence of the parting ray : 

O'er woods, streams, heights, heaven's magic 
glories play ; 
And, save the bleatings of the distant flocks, 
That murmur faintly from yon wood-fringed 
rocks, 

The linnets, or the throstle's evening lay. 

The soothing dash of oars that linger near 
Yon headland summit (where the sun-tipt sail 

Peeps 'mid the woodland's shadow) to the ear 
No sound is brought ! — Dear maid, can aught 
prevail 

To shake thy soul when scenes like these appear, 
Or bid the tides of genial nature fail ? 



190 



SONNET XVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

SihJune, 1800. 

On the calm eve of summer's fervid day 

Say, shall we sail along the lake's clear tide ? 
And, bounding in the little skiff, survey 

The countless forms that grace its gorgeous 
side ; 

The faint decline of landscape scarce espied, 
That to the horizon southward dies away, 
The mass of ancient rock like castle gray, 

The solemn wood, or mountain bleak and wide ; 
The little promontory's joyous green, 

The intersecting underwood, the cot, 
Or pastoral farm, whose herds at evening seen, 

Wind with slow varying course the sloping 
vale, — 
Maiden, does Fancy, whispering, cheat or not ? 

" Yes, on that glassy tide your bark shall sail." 



191 
SONNET XVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

8th June, 1800. 
And further tell me, when the garish light 

Fades from the crystal canopy of heaven, 
Maiden, shall we religiously delight 

To linger through the slowly fading even ; 

Shall Hope and Fancy, long by Sorrow driven, 
To seek some solace by a timely flight, 

Own that meek patience hath not vainly striven 
To leave that busier world, where lawless might, 
And venom'd malice, fix the inward wound ? 
Oh God, shall peace and thankfulness abound 

The more for sorrows past, and ills sustain'd ? 
And as our souls drink in harmoniously 
Sounds felt like silence, all resentments die 

In grateful love, for joys and friends retain'd. 



192 



SONNET XVTII. 

Inserted in a Novel written by the Author, printed, 
but not published, called " Isabel" 

26tk March, 1803. 

Fain would I say, withdraw, thou glorious beam, 

And shroud thyself in darkness ! fain desire 
Those rocks, those meads, that wood, yon laugh- 
ing stream, 
All nature's glowing graces to retire ; 
For more than earthly to my heart they seem ; — 

So that my struggling sentiments aspire, 
To frame the witchery of the lover's dream ; 

And mental bliss in unison require. 
Yes, when I see that pomp of Nature, wrought 

^To such excess of loveliness, I seek, 
Though sought in vain, a soul whose mutual 
thought 
May catch the gush of love which cannot 
speak ; 
Rescuing the sigh that may not be subdued 
From agonies that dwell with Solitude. 



193 



SONNET XIX. 

Z6th March, 1803. 
Thou cottage gleaming near the tuft of trees, 

Thou tell'st of joy more than I dare believe 
Falls to the lot of man ; where Fancy sees, 

(For credulous Fancy still her dreams will 
weave) 

Him whose low fate no restless cares deceive, 
Blest by your smiles, pure as the mountain 

breeze ; 
Love, Peace, Humility, whose ministries 

Give all that happiest mortals can receive. 
Yon sun-tipt grove's embosom'd harmony, 

As fades the splendour of departing day, 
Swells on my ear most like the minstrelsy 

Which from thy inmate's pipe shall bear away 
The soul of him who listens, till he hear 
Sounds that awaken love's forgotten tear. 



194 



SONNET XX. 

30th March, 1803. 

Is not all nature smiling ? Why should I 

Pine with the agonies of wretchedness, 
This active life excites, that vanity, 

And him the fervours of affection bless : 
Ambition beckoning waves her banners high, 

Streaming with rays of glory and success, 
And on the wing of Folly thousands fly 

To grasp the toy of hourly happiness. 
Dejection presses me with power-like fate 

In fellowship with woe, and inward care ; 

The beauteous forms of nature wrought so fair. 
Sink on my spirits with a weary weight ; 

Nor active life less threatens with despair, 
There flourish insincerity and hate. 



195 



SONNET XXL 

30th March, 1805. 
Ye buds obedient to the breath of spring, 

Why with no wonted smile are ye caress'd ? 
Thou soul of Love that, borne on zephyr's wing. 

Dost steal unseen within the soften'd breast, 
Who, blessing and tormenting, know'st to bring 

Soft sighs, inquietudes, and many a guest 
That hint of dangerous joy, why dost thou wring, 

Not sooth my spirit to delicious rest ? 
Tis that I seek what human heart ne'er found, 

A world where Love, Truth, Peace, their laws 
maintain ; 
Tis that I ask on this polluted ground, 

For wells of living water ! Spring- tide train, 
Urging a hopeless wish, 'tis thus ye wound, 

To seek the more for what I seek in vain.* 

* I weep the more because I weep in rain. — Gray. 



o 2 



196 



SONNET XXII. 

Written early in the Morning, soon after the 
Birth of my third Child; and inscribed to my 
Mother, who was present on the occasion. 

31st March, 1803. 

At this still hour, when, scarce by whistling 
swain, 

Bearing his pail, the meadow path is trod ; 
And thick mists hovering silently retain 

On ivied scar, and on the hill's dark sod, 
Their nightly station; when throughout the plain 

No wreathed smoke betrays the unseen abode 
Of early shepherd ; how can I restrain 

The hymn that mounts in gratitude to God ? 
The name of Father, now, with threefold force, 

Lives in my heart ; and she to whom I trace 
The gift of life, excites another source 

Of natural transport ; her belov'd embrace 
Strengthening our dear, domestic intercourse, 

Protects this blossom of her grateful race. 



197 



SONNET XXIII. 

14th April, 1803. 
There is I know not what within my breast, 
Which, when these days of vernal beauty come, 
Excites my ardent sentiments to roam 
For happiness by mortals not possess'd : 
The song of birds, the lawn whose soft green 
vest 
Is prank'd with spring-flowers ; the translucent 

foam 
Of yon clear stream that winds around my 
home, 
Whose mossy banks my tottering babes have 

press'd 
With daily joy : the hills aerial height 

Piled in the summer skies of cloudless blue, 
And faintly bathed with like cerulean hue, 
So raise my soul, that, when she shares the sight, 
Who doubles every charm she loves to view, 
My o'ercharg'd heart is troubled with delight. 



198 



SONNET XXIV. 

14th April, 1803. 

And when the bleat of lambs from yonder bank 
Stole with the murmur of the summer breeze, 
That creeps among those ancient holly trees, 

And ivied rocks ; when all my senses drank 

This river's charm, whose course pale violets 
prank, 
Primrose, and daisy ; while upon my knees 
My babes would mimic nature's harmonies, 

How in my heart the sense of pleasure sank ! 

Twas pure affection's simple ecstacy ! 
Let not the spotless sense be e'er defiled, 
Which, at that willing hour, so sweetly smiled; 

In years of manhood may the father see 
The pure enjoyments of the little child* 

The pledge of innocent maturity ! 



199 



SONNET XXV. 



TO MY MOTHER. 



And art thou come and gone, childhood's first 
friend ? 
Oh, sad condition of life's treacherous way, 
That thus our best delights must quickly end, 

And, save pale memory's treasures, all decay. 
And art thou gone ? Who knows how time may 
rend 
Existence' feeble thread ere thou canst pay 
Another cordial visit, or descend 

Oblivious, on the feelings of to-day ? 
We never more shall meet with thoughts like 
those 
Which now inspire our hearts; — the hour so 
dear, 
The certain hour is gone ; nor mortal knows, 
When, where, or how, such hour may re- 
appear. 
Fain would my heart avert the change ; it owes 
To change such bitter pangs, all change brings 
—-fear ! 



•200 



SONNET XXVL 

Storm at Night, in a mountainous Country, con- 
trasted with Domestic and Fire-side comforts. 



How calm is my recess; and how the frost, 
Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear 
The silence, and the warmth enjoyed within. 

Cowper's Task, Book iv. 



11th May, 1803. 

JVow howls the storm pent up amid the hills, 
At distance heard ; with still increasing roar 
It sweeps along the flooded vale : no more 

The mountain stream, fed from a thousand rills, 

The poet's ear with soothing murmur thrills ; 
But swol'n, impetuous, rushing fiercely o'er, 
With vexed surge, the bounds it knew before, 

The tempest's solemn diapason fills. 



201 

Now stir the fire ; while the drench'd windows 
shake, 
And, borne on blasts of night, thick sheets of 

rain, 
With shrill, swift crash burst on each rattling 
pane : 
At eve's due hour where home-bred comforts 
wake, 
Where music, books, and social converse 
reign, 
The scene is dearer for the tempest's sake. 



20* 



SONNET XXVIL 

Sketch of a Mountain Cottage. 

nth May, 1803. 
Yon cottage sheltered by those aged pines, 
Whispering with winds that 'mid their branches 

sweep, 
Like the low murmurs of the distant deep ; 
Yon whiten'd cottage, mantled o'er with vines, 
Above whose roof the wooded hill inclines, 
With garden where the earliest snow-drops 

peep, 
Crocus, and violet ; where Liburnams weep, 
And either Lilac, with Syringa, shines. 
Yon cot, the heart-struck mourner well might 
seek, 
One whom dejection, or misfortunes, chase 
From cheerful haunts of man ; its rustic grace 
The dignity of better days doth speak, 

Nor should the worldling force, in such a 
place, 
The blush of decent pride on griefs pale cheek. 



203 



SONNET XXVIII. 

12th May, 1803. 

When first among these mighty hills I came, 
A wild delirium wakened every sense ; 
Rocks, hills, woods, waters, lent their in- 
fluence, 
And shapes, and sounds, of more than earthly 

frame, 
Haunted my dreams; the thought of fear or 
blame 
Did never then a deadly chill dispense ; 
I swiftly caught, unmindful where or whence 
It sprung, at rapture's vivifying flame. 
But all is chang'd, — I then pursued the sprite 
Of airy transport ; now I seek the shrine 
Of hermit peace ; the future then was mine 
In gaudy colours drest, now reigns thick night 
On the next hour : — oh, could it only shine, 
Dreams of past joy, with your reflected light t 



204 



SONNET XXIX. 

Description of a Spring Hailstorm in a moun- 
tainous Country. 

13th May, 1803. 

Amid those hills, while yet, in clefts, the snow 
Chills the first breath of spring's salubrious 

gale, 
Clouds thick, and lowering more and more 
prevail, 
And moans the pent up tempest dull and low. 
The clouds advance ; the swift blasts, as they 

g°> 
Mountain and scar, and rocking wood assail ; 

Confused murmurs rush athwart the vale, 
And winter's eddying leaves whirl to and fro. 
Through slanting hail which scuds along the sky 

Pale nature gleams in unsubstantial hue, 

Th' eternal mountains vanish from the view, — 
Now they burst sudden opening from on high, 

The fleet-wing'd tempest gather'd and with- 
drew : 
As swift gay sun-beams o'er the landscape fly ! — 



205 
SONNET XXX. 

TO SOPHIA. 

Written previous to a Journey to a place very 
distant from that of our. residence. 

27th Nov. 1806. 
Shall we again the sacred stilness hail 

Of this belov'd abode ? Shall we again, 

Withdrawn from all the hum and stir of men, 
Read in each other's looks the cordial tale 
Of days of mild esteem ? — the interchange 

Of kindly offices ? — the sacrifice, 
r Silent and free, of wayward phantasies, 
That fain would mar a love they could not change ? 
Had it not been for thee, thou generous soul, 

Whom wrongs of mine could never turn aside, 

Nor petulance, nor wretchedness, divide ; 
Who, when the black cloud heaviest seem'd 
to roll, 

Didst spread thy faithful arms thy friend to 
save — 

His happiest fate had been the silent grave ! 



206 



SONNET XXXI, 

TO SOPHIA. 

September 26, 1806. 

May'st thou be happy, my beloved friend ! 

And you, sweet innocents, may ye be blest ! 
May peace and love from yonder skies descend 
And find a home in each unruffled breast ! 
Oh, could I shroud you in some quiet nest, 
Where never sounds of grief or fear offend ; 
Though still some weight my aching heart op- 
press'd, 
A glow of triumph with its pangs should blend. 
But ye, poor babes, must struggle, perhaps must 
fall, 
And thou, best friend, with me mayst bid 
farewell 
To many a flattering hope ! but this is all 

In darkness hid; and 'tis not fit to dwell 
In such a world, on griefs fantastical, 

Pitliest unknown ! — God grant that all end 
well! 






207 
SONNET XXXIL 

TO MISS W . 

On her proposing a Visit to the Family of the 
Author. 

15th Oct. 1806. 

Did Fortune smile propitious on our lot, 
Or in our home refinement's magic spell 
Detain those graces you have woo'd so well* 

Glad should we be to hail you at our cot ! 

But honest Pride and Truth, that scorn the blot 
Of false pretension, urge, tho' loath, to tell 
Of thoughts and cares inelegant, that dwell 

In mediocrity's most favoured spot. 

Then why should we with selfish aim invite 
A friend we love, where anxious cares alarm 1 
Rather tell her with fascination's charm, 

To thrid the mazy labyrinth of delight ; 
Circled by Fancy's rainbow-winged swarm 

That live but in the sunbeam of her sight 



- 



4* 



208 



SONNET XXXIII. 

FROM PETRARCH. 

lUhNov. 1806. 
Say, what officious angel bore my grief, 
By pity mov'd, to the abodes on high; 
That now my Laura hastens from the sky, 
With mildest courtesy, to my relief? 
She comes to calm my sad and troubled breast, 
So full of sweetness, so devoid of pride, 
That life, before detested, seems supplied 
With consolation, and with thoughts of rest. 
Oh, blessed thou, who thus hast power to im- 
, press 
With sweet intelligencing looks and speech ; 
Looks, words, more dear from secret conscious- 
ness, 
That we alone their mystic sense can reach. 
For, pitying, thou dost condescend to teach 
That thou refusedst, but the more to bless. 






209 



SONNET XXXIV. 

lMhJan. 1807, 
When friendship turns her long averted face, 

And sweetly smiles on me again ; 'tis hard 
To wear the look of coldness, nor embrace 

The dear and profFer'd blessing of regard. 
Oh Thou, at whose behest man runs the race 

Of life, howe'er severe ; who bidst him guard 
His eyes, his senses, and his heart, nor chase 

In this bleak clime a premature reward ; 
Forgive me, if my thoughts, at times, rebel ; 

If feeling strongly, I should sometimes pine 

To make the flattering dreams of pleasure 
mine — 
And grasp those joys my fancy feigns too well. 

The ascendant will bends to thy great design 
Tho' trait'rous wishes throb, and tears of nature 
swell. 



210 



SONNET XXXV. 

FROM PETRARCH. 

31st Jan. 1807. 
Oh chamber, which, till late, retreat supplied, 

From heavy storms that pelted through the day, 

Thou seest me now to pining care a prey, 
Which from the curious world I fain would hide. 
Oh couch, where common griefs are laid aside, 

How oft thy shelter did my pangs allay ? 

Now bath'd with tears, my sighs to thee betray 
A cureless passion to despair allied. 

Of solitude I am not weary grown : 
Myself I fear and my consuming woe, 
My tortur'd soul, my insuppressive foe ! 

And vulgar souls, from whom I long have flown, 
(Oh, humbling change !) a refuge now bestow, 

So much I dread to find myself alone. 



211 

SONNET XXXVL 

FROM PETRARCH. 

1st February, 1807. 
JLove, I transgress, and consciously transgress, 
But, like the wretch, whom inward flames con- 
sume, 
My pangs increase, and reason's aid suppress, 

Till cureless agony complete my doom. 
Some little check to importunate distress 

The fear inspired, that I might bring a gloom 
On her sweet hours of peace ; but now no less 

Than fell despair goads boldly to presume. 
Of reckless ravings, petulant and wild, 

'Tis thou, not I, oh Love, the guilt must bear, 
Who thus dost every power of thought per- 
plex, 
So that to airy nothings, like a child, 
And worse than airy nothings, I repair — 
Oh, pardon thou who thus my heart dost 
vex. 



P2 



212 
SONNET XXXVII. 

TO SOLITUDE. 



In solitude 
What happiness?— Who can enjoy alone? 
Or, all enjoying, what contentment find ? 



Sd February, 1807. 
Oh Solitude, let him thy aid implore, 
Whose o'erwrought soul the busy world hath 

tired ; 
And oft thou'rt wisely wooed by him inspired 
With taste, and learning's independent lore. 
But, Solitude, thou art a friend no more, 
To him, who, with a hopeless passion fired, 
To brood unmarked, incautious, hath retired 
On joys whose stings remain, whose sweets are 

o'er. 
Then, Solitude, thou soft but dangerous power, 
Who charm'st the enthusiast with insidious 

rest, 
Thy silent days unnerve, relax ; — and drest 
In dire illusion, comes thy loneliest hour ! 

The cheerful Spirit would not be thy guest ! 
And Frenzy clasps the wretched in thy bower. 



213 
SONNET XXXVIII. 

TO SOLITUDE. 

Sd February, 1807. 

Better the boisterous tide of life to stem, 
Than dwell on Love's enervating delight; 

Better to fret thy spirits in the game 
Of interest or ambition, than to blight 
Thy youth's first vigorous promise; bid the 
night 

Of disappointment shroud thy noteless name ; 
Than to a cankering foe yield up the right 

Of all those thoughts that pledged thy course to 
fame. 
Since happiness evades our mortal eye, 

Bear we the station firmly heaven assigned ! 

Ye melting visions that relax the mind 

Begone ! ye promise peace — but we must buy 
Our peace on earth with arduous victory 

O'er all that Passion to her heart would bind. 



214 
SONNET XXXIX. 

TO SOLITUDE. 

4th February, 1807. 
Oh, Solitude, thou hast no moderate pain ! 

Thy griefs are cureless ; it were far more wise 

To chase of busy life the vanities 
And fretting incidents, than court thy reign 
Of deep, profoundest gloom. Alas, in vain 

Ye seek for peace whose least sensations rise 

Above the cold hearts loftiest ecstacies 9 
By stern proscription of amusement's train. 

Better to toil in bleak life's thorny field ; 
Be galled by interruptions that estrange 
Thy thoughts from what thou art; than when 
the range 

Of outward forms withdraw, till then concealed, 

To find an inward chaos that will yield 
To nought save fortune, time, and place, and 
change. 



215 



SONNET XL. 



Inserted in a Novel, written by the author, printed^ 
but not published, called " Isabel." 

27th July, 1807. 
No ear shall ever hear my source of woe ; 

No heart shall e'er conceive the pang I feel ; 

None but the Almighty power the wound can 
heal, 
Which prompts my bosom's agonizing throe ! 
O ye, so eloquent in sorrow, know 

Grief is not grief when language may reveal ; 

He is the man of grief who must conceal 
Thoughts that, like spectres, trackless come and 
go. 

Senses of ear, and eye, and touch, ye raise 
An insurrection through my inmost soul ; 

Yet o'er that soul the law of duty sways 
With absolute, invincible control. 

Oh Virtue, let me cease to love thy ways ! 
Or bid these tides of passion cease to roll ! 



•216 



SONNET XLL 

29th Sept. 1807. 
Let those to whom Love ne'er his raptures 
dealt 
Despise his power; — dead to the thrilling 

sense, 
The dear infatuating influence, 
With which the stricken breast is doomed to 

melt. 
Let those not talk of love, who have not knelt 
In supplicating anguish so intense 
That Grief could not conceive a recompense 
In all the stores of life for what it felt. 

If thou hast suffer'd thus, thy God implore 
To teach thy thought devotion's ardent aim; 

For all thy days of happiness are o'er 
If thou confidest in an earthly flame. 

Heaven grant the infinite of thought may find 
Him who alone can fill the heights and depths 
of mind. 



217 



SONNET XLII. 

Written 29th Sept. 1807. 

Thou speakest well ! Imagination owes 
All to herself. To trifles light and vain 
She gives amazing stress of joy and pain ; 

And sometimes, mighty in her own repose, 

Removeth mountains, that impending rose 
To check her onward path ! Creation's reign, 
Touched by her magic wand, brings forth a 
train 

Of playful sprites, or ghosts foreboding woes ; 
A world to all, save him that sees, unknown ! 

In summer's blissful noon strange voices swell ; 
In night's deep silence, whence that bursting 
groan ? 

These, and a thousand shapes, and sounds that 
dwell 
With Fancy, are exclusively their own, 

Loved by the Priestess of the Magic Cell, 



318 



SONNET XLIIL 

Inserted in a Novel,written by the Author, printed* 
but not published, called " Isabel." 

1st Oct. 1807. 
If, as the mystics say, grace from above 

More frequent dawns while tears of anguish roll, 
Wrestling with passions of the fallen soul, 
There might be consolation thus to prove 
An inward torment; thus, like Noah's dove, 
To know no resting-place from grief's control ; 
No sheltered spot where memory doth not toll 
The knell of sorrow for some severed love. 
But if an idle anguish desecrate 

From every pure and intellectual aim, 

The abode of thought, the temple of the 
mind, 
What but despair and blasphemy await ? — 
Religion, come, in Patience' holy name, 
The self-abandon'd heart thou'rt pledged to 
bind.* 

* He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. 



219 



SONNET XL1V. 

Two Sketches attempted, which will only be un- 
derstood well by him who acknowledges their 
likeness to himself. 

1st Oct. 1807. 

Hard is his lot, who wheresoever he turns, 
No fellow-feeling finds ! whom social glee 

Never exhilarates ; whose heart ne'er burns 
With infant loves ; — nor tears of sympathy, 
Nor playful smiles, — to other men as free 

As air or light of heaven — are his ; who yearns 
With impotent, and pining jealousy, 
As other men appear to seem and be, 

While mockery's withering grin the novice 
spurns ; 
And sleek prosperity's unthinking sneer 

Dashes the trembling effort ere matur'd : — 
Shrinks the chill'd baffled heart, as if the fear 

Of unforgiven guilt, and unabjur'd 

Pursued; — for self-applause,* with healthful 
cheer, 

Ne'er comes where mental misery is endured. 

* Madame de Stael says somewhere, " Les grands 
maux portent leur trouble jusques dans la conscience" 



-220 



SONNET XLV. 

ist Oct 180T. 
See this worn wretch amid the giddy throng, 

Feeble and timid : watch his anxious look : 

That mystery of care the world mistook 
For senselessness ! — Now bursts the festive song ! 
Pressed in his memory by a cruel wrong, 

And blasting misery of mind which shook 

The powers of life, so that he cannot brook 
The trophies that to social mirth belong. 

If thou hast never breath'd, though blest with 
ease 
And intellect, the unavailing prayer, 

The idle longing, to surrender these, 
And other rare pretensions, — so thy share 

In nature's common stores, and powers to please, 
Were once allowed, — thou knowest not despair* 



221 



SONNET XLVL 



1st Oct 1807. 
P Why should'st thou ever strike the mournful 
string ? " 
The world will say. Because that string re- 
peats 
A tale responsive to my soul, that cheats 
My inward grief, by outward sounds that bring 
Brief alienation. Thus for those I sing 

Whose kindred thoughts on kindred themes 

may range ; 
Whom no extreme transition could estrange 
From secret disappointment's festering sting. 

Better t' associate powers of thought with woe, 
To dress her in the scanty remnants left 
Of fancy, grace, and beauty, than bereft 

Of all alleviation, bid her go, — 
As inadmissible to claim a share 
In sympathy, — to madness and despair. 



222 



SONNET XLVH. 

1st Oct. 1807. 
t Twere like a dear lov'd long lost friend regain'd 
When least expected, in thy solitude 
To hear a voice which fits thy pensive mood : 
Men of the world, who joy's full cup have drain'd, 
Repress the sneer ; nor selfishly arraigned, 
Miscall each sentiment not understood : 
There are, like me, who life's gay scenes have 
viewed, 
In sorrow's discipline too early trained. 
How oft have arid thought, and black despair, 
Which, numb'd by sorrow's iron guardian 

pride, 
Would never yield to grief personified, — 
Seduced to tears — that long congealed had dwelt 

In cold repression, thus been mollified, 
When plaintive numbers breathed emotions felt. 



223 



SONNET XLVIIL 

1st Oct. 1807. 

Come, Poesy, celestial power, and bring 

Thy genial train of visionary joys ! 

Raise my sad heart from sorrow that destroys ; 
And gnawing cares that check the salient spring 
Of genius : — come, and teach me how to sing : 

The world by me unenvied with its toys, 

The world amused by vanity and noise, 
And, pledged to interest, universal king. 

Recall the time when Fancy yet was young, 
And fresh affection shed the generous tear ; 

When falsehood was a stranger to my tongue, 
And vice, yet undetected, to mine ear, 

The dirge of murdered hope had not yet sung : 
Oh come, and rescue me from anxious fear I 



224 



SONNET XLIX. 

IN THE CHARACTER OF ST. PREUX. 

Suggested by reading, in the Heloise of Rousseau, 
the description of the Heroine of his Tale and 
St. Preux visiting, by means of an excursion by 
water, the rocks of Meillerie. 

Oct. 2nd, 1807. 
Sailing at ease along that placid lake, 
It seemed as all the world were left behind ; 
The universe was centred in my mind ; 
And what an universe was there to make 
Strange stir and tumult : fancy was awake, 
And thoughts of love and joy throbb'd quick : 

the wind 
Soothingly breathed; and mellowing beams 
assigned 
To autumn, raised such notes from bush and 

brake, 
That every object made the sense to ache, 
In Nature's most voluptuous mood combin'd. 



225 

For sailing thus along that placid tide, 

Dead to the world, the world unheeding me, 
While hopeless love in bleeding misery 
Throbbed in my heart, fain would despair have 
tried 
'Mid whelming waves, the wretches latest 

cure — 
But conscience whisper'd, " Thou must yet 
endure.''* 

* The author is aware that in this little composition, he 
has exceeded the warrant allowed to the structure of the 
sonnet in the number of lines of which it consists ; but 
he takes the liberty, nevertheless, as it is more like a 
sonnet than any thing else, of classing it with compositions 
so entitled ; and he hopes that, lost in a crowd, its over- 
wieldiness of bulk will scarcely be perceived, where it has 
so many near relations at least, 

Facies non omnibus una 

Nee diversa tamen, qualis decet esse sororum, 

who, he fears, have each of them their respective blemishes. 



226 



SONNET L. 

2nd Oct. 1807. 
Whether thou smile or frown, thou beauteous 
face, 

Thy charms alike possess my throbbing heart, 

Nor canst thou gesture, look, or word impart 
Fraught not with magic of enchanting grace : 
Oh, could I once thy lovely form embrace ! 

Die on thy lips, and, as fierce raptures dart, 

Breathe sighs that bid the mutual soul depart ! 
And with keen glances, keener glances chase ! 

It may not be, Oh Love ! — Thou gavest to me 
A heart too prone thy raptures to adore ! 
The touch, the look, the sigh, are mine no more I 

Love is departed, and in agony 
The infatuated spirit must deplore 

That after love no other joy can be. 



227 
SONNET LI. 

TO MISS . 

Oct. 4, 1807. 
Oh sentiment, in thy immortal glow, 
Our daily life with aspect new is seen, 
Thine is the touch discriminating, keen ! 
In persons, things, thou various shades dost 

know 
Which to mere intellect could not bestow 
A self-amusing topic : blank, I ween, 
Save to the initiate mind, thy busiest scene, 
Filled with affections, fears, and joy, and woe. 
But, ah ! how seldom must the trembling 
sense, 
By thee inspir'd, a heart responsive find ! 

How many to thy favours make pretence ! 
But rarely art thou, bashful instinct, kind, 

Where Modesty with virgin influence 
Hides not, with jealous car.e, her stores of mind ! 



Q 2 



228 



SONNET LIL 

TO MISS . 

Oct. 4, 1807. 

Once more, oh sentiment, I strike my lyre, 

Thy powers to sing. — To all the stores of art 

Thou dost entrancing dignity impart ! 
To painting, music, poesy, thy fire 

Doth give a fascinating influence : 
Forms, sounds, and words, subordinate to thee, 
Rise to a more imperious agency, 

Ineffable in grace and eloquence. 
Come not with death, oh sentiment ! nor come 

With disappointment, sorrow, and disease ! 
Then dim the impassioned eye, the tongue is 
dumb 

Where fascination played her witcheries. 
Then heaviest ills the loftiest bosom numb, 

Since streams most copious on that bosom freeze* 



229 



SONNET LIII. 

To her who will understand this, and the two 
preceding ones. 

4th Oct. 1807. 
To her I bring these trophies of thy reign, 

Oh sentiment ! thy most beloved child ! 

Soft is her look, as if an angel smiled ; 
And musical her voice, as when the strain 
Of shepherd's flute along the twilight plain 

Is heard from far ; her step is calm and mild : 

Pride, and persuasive grace, seem reconciled 
In her, to consummate what poets feign. 

To thee I bring these trophies, beauteous 
form ! 
Round whom taste, elegance, and fancy breathe, 

To fashion's courtly ease you add the charm, 
To deem no thing that hath a heart beneath 

Solicitous benignity ! — Hence, warm 
With partial thoughts, I twine the unworthy 
wreathe. 



230 



SONNET LIV. 

Written after a Walk by Rydal Water , Westmore- 
land, in time of War. 

7th Oct. 1807. 
In such a day how calm and mild this scene, 

Made for poetic thought. The woods displayed 

Of brown and yellow every varying shade : 
And here and there the fresh and lingering green 
Told yet of summer and her days serene, 

Too soon departed ! Fading fern array'd 

The russet hills ; and, as faint sun-gleams 
stray'd, 
In warmer hues th' upland slopes were seen. 

Oh, beauteous aspect of a beauteous world ! 
Mournful to think how little understood ! 

In man's distemper'd heart hath frenzy hurl'd 
Envenom'd shafts ! The sword, defiPd with blood, 
Lays waste the earth : and o'er the ocean flood 

The crimson flag of discord is unfurPd. 






231 

SONNET LV. 

Written after seeing Rydal Lake. 

8th Oct 1807. 
Wild is the lake, dark in autumnal gloom ! 

And white its surf rolls in the silvery gleam ; 

Swift lights that flit like phantoms in a dream, 
Or white robed spirits hovering o'er a tomb 
The shades of autumn fitfully illume. 

The plaintive winds now swelling in a stream 

Of deep-toned music, now subsiding, seem 
To frame a dirge for Nature's faded bloom. 

The yellow leaf whirls frequent in the air ; 
From the full floating clouds propitious showers, 

As with an infant's playfulness repair 
To variegate the visionary hours : 
The elements at work exhaust their powers, 

From the bard's heart, to dissipate all care. 



232 



SONNET LVI. 

SthOet.1807. 
Whence dost thou spring, thou visionary sound, 
Heard by my hearth, what time the curtain 

hides 
The external world, where sable night abides ? 
Thy source unseen, though Fancy in her round, 
Scorning the illumin'd parlour's scanty bound 
Springs to the waste o'er which thy murmur 

glides, 
Pictures the mountain, or the roaring tides 
Whose haunts thou visitest with voice profound. 
Cease not thy music, when, at hour of sleep, 
The forms of day no longer cheat my woes ; 
When slumber's stealing powers mine eye-lids 
close, 
Still let thy melodies, so soft and deep, 
A soothing presage bring, that peace shall keep 
My bosom, rocked by Nature to repose. 



233 

SONNET LVIL 

Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, 
called " Isabel" 

14th Oct. 1807. 
My God ! I lift my sorrowing voice to thee ! 
I ask not health, prosperity, or fame, 
Joy, life, whate'er of good the thought can 
frame : 
I ask the gift of faith, when misery 
Must be my lot, that I may bend the knee, 
And feel, great God, that whence my misery 

came, 
From the same source alone my heart can 
claim 
That which from mental pangs can set me free ! 

Yes, Father ! let me see thy hand in grief, 
And grief to me shall be as comfort dear! 
But if, in wisdom, thou refuse to hear, 

If of my trials darkened faith be chief, 
Let resignation, with a holy fear, 

Refuse presumptuous, premature relief. 



234 



SONNET LVIII. 

Descriptive as well as commemorative of a place 
belonging to the eldest Brother of the Author's 
Father; a place in which were spent many of 
the happiest Hours of his Youth. 

19th Oct. 1807. 

Beloved spot, ere sleep mine eyes did close 
On last night's pillow, thy remembered scene, 
Thy shrubbery, avenue, and daisied green, 

Thy teeming garden, farm, and orchard rose 
With many a thought of what I once had been ! 

What beauty, and what joy didst thou disclose ! 

What hopes, what loves, what friendships, and 
what woes ! 
What tide of life thy busy range has seen ! 

Now silent all, deserted ! Memory's thought 
Can never from that moment* be estrang'd, 
When the lov'd progeny, in order rang'd, 

* The Uncle and Aunt of the Author had sixteen chil- 
dren, seven sons and nine daughters, and most of them 
so far remarkable for beauty of person, that, when col- 
lected together, the family groupe probably could scarce- 



235 

The parent's glance of heartfelt triumph caught ! 
Six graceful forms the hand of death hath 

chang'd, 
And to thy once gay bowers are fear and sorrow 

brought. 

ly be rivalled in that respect. The Author once in his 
life saw each individual of them marshalled according to 
their age : — it is to this circumstance, and to the subse- 
quent death of six of the family, all unexpectedly, and in 
quick succession one after the other, carried off in the 
bloom of life, that the latter part of the Sonnet alludes. 



236 



SONNET LIX. 

lUh Nov. 1807. 
Where is that crowd of friends that could dis- 
pense 
Refreshing rapture to life's sunny morn ? 
Where are those loves, affections, that are 
born 
Of freedom, sentiment, and confidence ? 
Tis silent all ! a blank to every sense ! 
The energy of life, that used to scorn 
The rule of pale experience, is withdrawn ! 
That power ere while so buoyant and intense ! 
Yet there is One who faithful still remains, 
Who loves my solitude, as once she lov'd 
My cheer in social life : who loves my joy, 
Nor flies my couch when gnawing sickness reigns : 
She, like the minister of heaven, hath prov'd 
That " time and chance" can true love ne'er 
destroy. 



237 



SONNET LX. 

14th Nov. 1807. 
Let him who runs of active life the race 

Despise the Muses : let him, with strong mind, 

Appropriate objects for each passion find : 
Yet are there some, who, doomed to quit the 

chase 
Of Interest, or Ambition, whose slow pace 

Of languid being to despair resigned, 

Could not support the interdict assigned 
To sequestration, with averted face 

Did the loved Muses frown on their bleak lot : 
For They can give to solitude a power, 
Can whisper soothings in the midnight hour ; 

And raise gay fictions where true joy is not ! 
The copious dews of sentiment can shower 

On Nature's bleakest, most deserted spot ! 



238 



SONNET LXL 

14th November, 1807. 
Say, what is friendship but true sympathy 
Of kindred minds, where mutual feeling burns ; 
Where cordial warmth the cordial warmth 
returns, 
And lightens up the heart-conveying eye ? 
And how do Interest, and Vanity, 
Folly, and fear of solitude, by turns, 
Hypocrisy that speedily discerns 
The worth of borrowed reputation, try 
To emulate thy pure consoling flame ! 

Oh Friendship, with this war of fiends op- 
press'd, 
Where dost thou keep thy soul's serenity? 
I know thy power will zealously disclaim 
Divided incense. — Let my heart be blest ! — 
For I would sacrifice my all to Thee ! 



239 



SONNET LXII. 

On the Death of Mr. Robert Lloyd, who, together 
with a Brother married, both of them leaving 
a Widow, the former with four, and the latter 
with three Children, and a Sister unmarried, 
died each of them of Fevers, in the short space 
of three weeks. 

Written 15th November, 1811. 

My friend, my brother, no more shall I see 
That face affectionate, that face benign, 
Those eyes where tenderness did always shine r 

Whene'er they turned their gentle beams on me. 

If ever Faith, and Generosity, 

Love, and Benevolence almost divine, 

Forgetfulness of Self, Humility^ 

Blessed human nature; — Robert, they were 
thine ! 

Thy smile, — I see it now, — was kind and sweet 
As the first dawnings of an April morn : 

Thy warm solicitude each wish to meet, 

And catch the struggling meaning ere 'twas 
born, 

No words can emulate ! Who o'er thy urn, 

Lost friend, like him who lov'd thee most, should 
mourn ? 



240 



SONNET LXIIl. 

The same Subject continued; addressed to Mrs, 
Robert Lloyd. 

15th November, 1811. 
Thou mourner desolate, what can I say 

To dry those tears which fall for him that's 
gone? 
I cannot bid thee hope that on life's way 

A human counterpart will e'er be known. 
No, never will a pure angelic ray 

Like that, which with a sweetness all his own, 

His dear face lighted, — never will a tone 
Of such solicitude, — thy love repay ! — 

Yet still thy soul communion sweet may hold, 
Still may his tenderness engross thy thought ! 

And though those eyes are dim, those lips are 
cold, 
With Love's warm eloquence divinely fraught, 

Still 'tis a holier privilege to grieve 

For Him, than with a less pure friend to live! 



241 



SONNET LXIV. 

Written 15th November, 1811. 
The following Sonnet was written after having 
finished, in Westmoreland, a translation of the 
Metamorphoses of Ovid into English verse, 
which the Author began six years before in 
Warwickshire ; and in order to facilitate the per- 
formance of which his brother kindly lent him 
the use of an apartment in his house, as being 
in a situation less interrupted by noise than the 
one in which he was stationed. 



This morn as dismal as the dismal theme, 
Which weighs my bosom when I think on thee : 
This morning shrouded in obscurity 

Of winds, and blustering rain, and vapours dim; 

This morn, with weary eye, and languid limb, 
The task is done of mimic poesy. 
To whom, dear friend, to whose kind sympathy, 

When in my breast first stirred the wayward 
whim, 

R 



242 

Can I ascribe assistance ? — Thou art gone ! — 

Thou first whene'er my frail and suffering mind 
Some effort made, with sweetness all thy own, 
And flattering promptitude most bland and 
kind, 
To gratulate my toils of little worth ! — 
Thou last to blame! — Thou jirst to hail their 
birth! 



243 

SONNET LXV. 

The same Subject continued. 

Written Ibth November, 1811. 
No, thou wert never known, wert never loved, 
As heart like thine should have been lov'd 

and known, 
Save by some life-long friends who now must 
groan 
That they, when thou didst live, so useless 

proved 

The cup of life to sweeten ! Friend removed 
From many a pang which hearts like thine 

alone 
Can feel ; which, with acuteness all thy own, 
Alas ! thou feltest ! Brother, Friend approved, 
Farewell ! I do not seek with hand profane, 
The veil that o'er thy heart was drawn to rend: 
Thou wert a hidden treasure which the vain, 
The proud, the worldly could not comprehend. 
1 mourn for thee, thou ne'er to be forgot ! 
Yet more for those who loved, and see thee not ! 

R 2 



244 



SONNET LXVI. 

On the Death of Mr. Thomas Lloyd, who died 
within three weeks of the time when the subject 
of the last four Sonnets breathed his last. 

%$ih December , 181 1* 
If manly honour, and a soul sincere, 
Fidelity with delicacy joined, 
Immaculate transparency of mind, 
And worth too sensitive for this low sphere ; 
If Thomas, all the virtues that are dear 
In scenes domestic, fortitude resigned, 
Manners by native elegance refined, 
May claim, when lost, the Muse's tuneful tear ; 
Say, who may more imperiously pretend, 
As husband, brother, father, son, and friend, 

Than thee, to such recording eulogy ? 
Yet those thy silent, suffering worth, who knew, 
Must think this eulogy, though too, too true, 
Less emblematic than dumb Grief of thee. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



JL HE following Poems, with a great number of 
others, had been set aside by the Author, as un- 
worthy of publication; but as he was inclined to 
think rather more favourably of these than of 
the others, they had been transcribed in order to 
be submitted to a friend, on whose judgment the 
Author relies much more implicitly than on his 
own, before he finally decided as to what Poems 
should, and what should not, be introduced into 
his Volume. However, this friend was on a jour- 
ney at the critical moment ; and the Author pre- 
ferred rejecting these Poems, to printing them 
from his own opinion. Before the last proof sheet 
of this little Volume was completed, another friend, 
on whom the Author thought he could equally rely, 
visited him ; and on the following Poems being 
submitted to him, gave it as his opinion, that these 
might be retained without impropriety. 



246 

There would not have been any necessity for 
this little explanatory remark, had not the other 
Poems in this Volume, with the exception of those 
on the Death of Priscilla Farmer, been arranged 
in the order in which they were written as to time: 
most of these, on the other hand, as the reader will 
perceive by comparing dates, are coeval with his 
earliest productions. 



247 



METAPHYSICAL SONNET I. 

Written 1794, 
My soul's an atom in the world of mind, 

HurPd from its centre by some adverse storm; 
The attraction's gone, its movements that confin'd 

The impulse fled, that urged it to perform 
Its destined office. Wandering through the void, 

Each due attrition, each excitement dead, 
Its moral aim and action seem destroyed, 

And its existence , like its functions, fled. 
Love was the parent orb from whence it drew 

Its moral being, hope its active force ; 
But Love's dear sun shall never shine anew ; 

Nor Hope again direct my wandering course ! 
My life is nothing to mankind ! — To me 
Tis worse than nothing ! ' Tis all agony ! 



248 
SONNET II. 

TO A PRIMROSE. 

1795. 

Come, simple floweret of the paly leaf! 

With yellow eye, and stalk of downy green, 
Though mild thy lustre, though thy days are brief, 

Oh, come and decorate my cottage scene ! 
For thee, I'll rear a bank where softest moss, 

And tenderest grass shall carelessly combine; 
No haughty flower shall shine in gaudy gloss, 

But azure violets mix their buds with thine. 
Far, far away, each keener wind shall fly, 

Each threatening tempest of the earljr year ! 
Thy fostering gale shall be the lover's sigh ! 

The dew that gems thy bud the lover's tear ! 
And ere thou diest, pale flower, thou'lt gain the 

praise 
To have soothed the bard, and to have inspir'd 
his lays. , 



249 
SONNET III. 

TO THE RIVER EMONT. 

1795. 

Sweet, simple stream, the shallow waves that 
glide 

In peaceful murmurs o'er thy rocky bed ; 
Sweet, simple stream, the gleams of eventide 

That on thy banks their mellowing lustre shed ; 
Befit the temper of my restless mind ! — 

For, while I hear thy waves, and see the 
gleam, 
Of latest eve, afar from human kind, 

To linger here unknown, I fondly dream, 
I snatch my flute, and breathe a softened lay ; 

Then melting, view it as an only friend; 
And oft I wonder much, that while so gay, 

And all unthinking, others onward wend, 
/here should sadly linger, and rejoice 
To hear a lone stream, or the flute's soft voice ! — 



250 
SONNET IV. 

TO LOCH-LOMOND. 

Aug. 1795. 
Lomond, thy rich and variegated scene, 

Fantastic now, now dignified, severe; 
Thy tufted underwood, of darker green, 

Thine arrowy pines that mock the rolling 
year; 
Thy soft diversity of sweeping bays, 

Fringed with each shrub, and edged with 
tenderest turf, 
Where, as the attenuated north-gale plays, 
The wild flowers mingle with the harmless 
surf: 
Thy long protracted lake, expansive now, — 

Boldly diversified with wood-crowned Isles, — 
Imprisoned now by rocks, on whose stern brow, 
Clad with cold heath, the summer scarcely 
smiles, 
I welcome fearfully; — and hail in thee 
The wildest shapings of sublimity. 






251 
SONNET V. 

TO THE SABBATH. 

1T96. 

Ah ! quiet day, I oft recall the time, 

When I did chase my childish sluggishness, 
The " rear of darkness lingering still," to dress 

In due sort for thy coming ; the first chime 
Of blithesome bells, that ushered in thy morn, 

Carolled to me of rest, and simplest mirth : 

TVas then all happiness on the wide earth 
To gaze ! — I little dreamt that man was born 

For aught but wholesome toil, and holiest praise, 
Thanking that God who made him to rejoice ! 

But, I am changed now ! nor could I raise 
My sunken spirit at thy well known voice ; 

But that thou seemest soothingly to say, 

u Look up poor mourner, to a better day? 



252 



SONNET VI. 

Written July, 1796. 
JN ow glares the proud sun on the thirsty street, 
Where the shrunk, swarthy mendicant implores- 
Some scanty pittance from the o'erflowing 
stores 
Of those that flutter by. How little meet 
Is it for fellow mortals thus to greet ! 

This with an humble gesture that adores ; 
That with a flinty threat or sneer, that pours 
A poison to the soul ! — Poor wretch, how sweet 
To bind some balsam on thy heart's keen 
wound ! 
To make thee smile, and raise thee to the rank 
That man should hold, wherever man is 
found ! — 
But, Oh, this may not be! — Thou canst but 
thank 
Him who would succour thee ! — Be this my 

meed ! — 
And thy rich thanks shall soothe a heart in 
need! 



253 



THE DEAD FRIEND. 



Burton, August, 179T. 
When I am quiet, and my centred soul 
Rests from its mortal working, it has seem'd 
As though the dead friend liv'd again, so sweet 
To me has been her memory* Evermore 
Would I be so o'ertaken : for my tears 
Were tears of pleasantness, and all my sighs 
O'erflowings of affection ! Hallow'd spirit, 
Fain would I cherish the belief that thou 
Guidest my onward feet, cleansest my heart 
From every fleshly thought. Or when I muse 
In sacred solitude, or when abroad 
I ponder on my desultory way ; 
Or when in active life I force myself 
To wear the semblance which my heart not owns, 
I love to think that thou dost mingle still 
The holy leav'nings of inbreathed love 
With all my frail and unregenerate thoughts. 
The dear remembrance of thy kindled eye 



254 THE DEAD FRIEND. 

When it met mine ; thy grasp of tenderness ; 

Thy mute expression of anxiety 

When I was sore perplex'd ; thy awful tones, 

Full, holy, and melodious, that inclin'd 

My difficult ear, and drew my wayward heart 

" To the better cause :" all these live o'er again, 

And fill the lonely hour with such strange shades 

Of past existence, that I seem to greet 

My former self, and be again that child 

Whom thou didst love so well, who knew so well 

The value of that love ! 

O thou wast all 
To me ! — the vacancy which thou hast left 
No mortal may fill up ; it is a part 
To thee and Heaven devoted ! I would there 
Treasure each manlier truth, whose rudiment 
I learn'd from thee, best parent ! Every form 
Of beauty, every loftier thought, and all 
The unshap'd energies which I may win 
To bright perfection's aim ; these visitants 
Alone, that sanctuary of my inmost soul 
Shall pierce, where thou dost dwell. 

And when mankind 
Deem hardly of my doings, I will turn 



THE DEAD FRIEND. 255 

To thee, best friend! And if the time should come 

When all forsake me, if at that lone hour, 

That dreary pause of mental solitude, 

On thy invisible solace I may lean, 

Twill fill my bosom till it overflows ; 

For thou wast pure, and sternly virtuous, 

Yet tender and affectionate. Thy will 

Was holy and unbending ; yet that will 

Was mild in act; pursuing rigidly, 

With singleness of soul, the work that Heaven 

Had giv'n thee to perform ; yet bearing ever 

Thy lofty calling with so meek a mien, 

That all with mute involuntary awe 

Felt ere they call'd thee good ! Farewell, and raise 

My backward heart to somewhat of the state 

Hallowing thy mortal pilgrimage, that so 

In happier worlds than this we meet again ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 

€|)e Cranslatton^ 



THE following stories from Ovid, which are now 
printed as specimens of a translation of his Meta- 
morphoses, completed by the Author, are not in- 
tended to be literally rendered from the Latin: it 
has been the object of the Author, allowing for the 
dissimilarity of the Latin and English languages, 
to give an impression to readers in the latter ana- 
logous to that which the original might be supposed 
to give to those in the former ; and he has always 
been particularly careful not to suffer any peculiar 
beauties of sentiment, description, or phraseology 
to escape his notice. 

The Metamorphoses in the original are written 
in a style highly artificial : the Authoi*, therefore, 
in his translation has rather prefened the adopt- 
ing a smooth and even versification, to the more 
s 2 



260 

loose, easy, and natural one, which latterly has 
been so muck in vogue. 

The great merits of Ovid in the work now re- 
ferred to, are, a developement of an exquisite sense 
of physical beauty ; highly decorated, and some- 
times almost voluptuous description: where tke 
subject requires it, as in the Death of Hercules, 
and the contest of Ulysses and Ajax for the arms 
of Achilles, a command of great strength of lan- 
guage; and an almost unrivalled power of describ- 
ing the passions in a state of oscillation, or' rather 
the feelings of the mind, when strongly solicited 
by vehement passion to forego deeply rooted prin- 
ciple. As he is more metaphysical than most of 
the Latin poets, so perhaps in his writings more 
than in almost any of those of the others, passages 
frequently occur apposite to the different expe- 
riences of life, and which tke reader would be 
desirous to treasure in his memory. 

The Author might add, that he was, in some 
measure, induced to print a few of the stories 
from Ovid, together with his own Poems, from 
tke consideration tkat the latter are so exclusively 
of a sentimental and meditative cast, that he 
thought tke former might afford no unacceptable 
variety to the volume to some readers ; especially 



261 

to those who seek for narratives in poetical composi- 
tion. On the other hand, he lias been staggered 
with regard to publishing the translation as a 
whole, except indeed a considerable part of it 
should be re-written, from the consciousness, that, 
in those parts of the performance where, from t1\e 
dryness of the subject, it is most difficult to do well, 
his has been more than rivalled, nay, much out- 
done, by that of Mr, Orger, which a few years ago 
appeared in numbers, which, though compleated, 
never seems to have attracted the attention of which 
it teas worthy. 

It gives the Author pleasure to have so appro- 
priate an opportunity of offering his humble com- 
mendation — for commendation indeed is but a 
mite thrown into the scale of applause, when it 
comes from one whose name is so little known, and 
so utterly unestablished — to a fellow-labourer in a 
task, which, in the instance alluded to, was exe- 
cuted so much to the credit of him who under- 
took it. 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF THE METAMOR- 
PHOSES OF OVID. 



But thou, oh Nessus, tempted to betray 
Thy trust, most signally didst penance pay 
For Dejanira's love, when the swift dart 
Of her late trusting Lord transpierced thy heart. 
For she, with Hercules, who sought once more 
His Father's walls, came to Evenus' shore. 
The eddying river, swelled by wintry rains, 
Obstructs their progress, deluging the plains. 
Here Nessus flatter'd them with specious words, 
Nessus, strong-limb'd, acquainted with the fords ; 
And thus accosted Jove's intrepid son, 
Who, fearless, trembled for his spouse alone. 
" This woman, oh Alcides, on yon strand, 
" By my assistance, shall securely stand. 
* In swimming try thy strength." The friendly 

prayer 
Hercules heard, confiding : to his care 



264 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

Deianira, pale with terror, gave, 
Who feared alike the Centaur, and the wave. 
Meantime Alcides to the other side 
His club and curved bow threw across the tide ; 
And though the quiver's weight increased his toil, 
And the Nemsean lion's shaggy spoil, 
" Since I begin," he cries, " fixed fate decrees 
" Evenus shall submit to Hercules." 
N or does he hesitate, nor seek its course 
Where flows the stream with mitigated force ; 
But all its power he»braves with might intense, 
Where boil its waves with added turbulence. 
Now had the Hero gained the further shore, 
And grasped the massy club and bow once more, 
When recognizing his wife's voice, he cried 
To Nessus, who had seized upon his bride, 
His trust betraying, — " What vain confidence 
" Of swiftness prompts thee to this violence? 
" Oh biform ravisher, thy prey resign, 
" Nor claims usurp to what alone is mine. 
" If I cannot persuade to what is just, 
" Ixion well might frighten lawless lust. 
" Yet though thou trustest to thy biform shape, 
" Thou shalt not with impunity escape. 
" Swiftness shall not, but wounds shall over- 
take :" 
And his exploit made good the words he spake. 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 265 

His flying back he wounded with the dart, 
The barbed hook projected from his heart. 
The dart extracted, from each gaping sore, 
Mixed with Lernaean poison, gushed the gore. 
This Nessus caught. — " Nor unrevenged I 

die," 
He muttered in a stern soliloquy. 
He dips a vestment in the poisoned stream, 
And thus resenting his abortive scheme, 
Gave it the dame, and told her it would prove 
A talisman of everlasting love. 

The interval is long. — To every state 
Were known Alcides' fame, and Juno's hate. 
And now the hero from (Echalia came, 
With conquest crowned, and blessed with 

brighter fame. 
And altars to Cenoean Jove he raised, 
Which on the Euboic promontory blazed ; 
When Fame, who loves to add false things to 

true, 
From sources small, make great events ensue, 
Told Deianira, that Amphitryon's son, 
To Love's soft joys by Iole was won. 
Love's jealousy first realized her fears ; 
Alarmed at his inconstancy, in tears 



266 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

She found a refuge ; having thus indulged 

Her grief, in words she thus that grief divulged : 

" Shall the adulteress in my tears rejoice ? 

" Since she approaches, some new artifice, 

" While yet I may, my injuries must bested, 

•' And while no other occupies my bed. 

" Shall I be silent, or shall I complain, 

" Here tarry, or seek Calydon again ? 

" Say, shall I abdicate this home once dear, 

" Or shall I blast their bliss by staying here ? 

" What if, Oh Meleager ! I pursue 

" The thought, that, as thy sister, I will do 

" That which befits my birth to thine allied, 

" That which befits the pang of outraged pride ; 

" And that to shew what deeds from woe can 

start, 
" I plunge my dagger in my rival's heart?" 
By different projects tossed, she long demurred ; 
At last to send the vestment she preferred, 
With Nessus' blood imbued; which might re- 
store 
Vigour to alienated love once more. 
She gave, unconscious what she would bestow, 
To Lichas, ignorant as herself, her woe, 
And, suffering wretch, with many a bland word,. 
Commands that he should give it to his Lord. 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 367 

The unconscious Hero took it, and imbued 
His form with poison of Lernaean brood. 
He prayed, while flames arise by incense fed, 
And wine from cups on marble altars shed. 
The power of poison, vivified by heat, 
Thrilled in each vein, in every artery beat 
While Nature the fierce conflict could sustain, 
His wonted fortitude concealed the pain ; 
But, w T hen his pangs o'er patience did prevail, 
The altars he threw down, and with his wail 
Filled woody (Eta. Now, without delay, 
He tries the deadly vest to tear away ; 
And the adhesive skin, where'er he tries, 
And mangled flesh, bespeak his agonies ; 
And, horrible to tell, the robe still clings, 
Still its tenacity around him flings ; 
Or his torn limbs, and mighty bones laid bare, 
Attest the pangs of impotent despair. 
As red-hot steel dipped in the gelid flood, 
Hissed, and, with ardent poison, boiled his blood* 
His sufferings knew no bounds. The flames de- 
vour 
His cracking heart-strings with their cruel 

power ; 
Coerulean moisture all his limbs distain, 
His bursting nerves are audible with pain. 



268 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

Each shrivelled arm he stretches to the skies, 
While the dire pest his marrow liquefies. 
" Oh Juno !" he exclaims, " feed on my woes, 
" Banquet on my unutterable throes, 
" Glut thy revenge !— And, if a foe may be 
" Compassioned, (for I am a foe to thee,) 
" Take my obnoxious life, sick with turmoils, 
" And cruel anguish, born for pityless toils. 
" Death were deliverance now ! — Such remedy 
" Twould well become a step-dame to apply. 
" Have I for such rewards Busiris slain, 
" Who smeared with strangers' blood the Egyp- 
tian fane ? 
" For such, Antaeus severed from the earth, 
" Which at once nurtured him, and gave him 

birth ? 
" Did I Iberia's triform monster dread, 
" Geryon? or Cerberus with the three-fold head? 
" Was it not ye, my hands, the horns that tore 
" From off the mighty bull ? And ye that bore 
" To the Stymphalian streams, and Elis, aid, 
" And the Parthenian groves ? Are ye thus 

paid, 
" Since ye the sword-belt to your faithless lord, 
" Embossed with Thermodontian gold, restored ? 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 260 

"Since of the Hesperian apples badly kept, 

"The dragon ye despoiled, who never slept? 

" Nor could the Centaurs, nor the boar with- 
stand, 

" Plague of Arcadia, this avenging hand ! 

44 Did it avert the savage Hydra's doom, 

44 To increase by loss, and two-fold strength 
resume ? 

u What? When, the Thracian horses fat with 
blood, 

" And stables full of mangled limbs, I viewed, 

" Were not they, soon as seen, felled by my 
sword, 

44 Their fierceness conquered, and their fiercer 
lord? 

" Say, did this arm Nemaea's lion spare ? 

"Say, did this neck the heavens refuse to bear? 

" Jove's cruel spouse could no more labours plan, 

" My swift performance e'en her hate outran. 

" But now a new plague threatens, which defies 
" Valour's strong arms, or virtue's energies ; 
" Through every member steals its poisonous 

breath, 
** My lungs convulsed, toil with the throes of 
death. 



270 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

" Meanwhile Eurystheus flourishes ! Great Jove, 
" And still they say that there are Gods above !" 

E'en as a tyger pierced with hunting darts, 
Infuriate he through lofty (Eta starts : 
E'en as the beast doth whet his vengeful fangs, 
He seeks the unconscious author of his pangs : 
* Oft did he groan, and often did he roar, 
Oft did he welter in his boiling gore ; 
His cruel robe oft tried to rend in vain, 
Trees he laid prostrate with the power of pain ; 
He warred with mountains, and the heavens 

defied, 
Awful in death as in his days of pride. 

Lichas, beneath a rocky height he spies, 
Trembling, and shrinking from his master's eyes ; 

* The following would be a more literal translation, 
with the exception of the words in italics, of the following 
passage ; but, for obvious reasons, the Author has chosen 
the more free one. 



Oft did he groan, and often did he roar, 
His cleaving robe oft tried to rend once more ; 
You might behold him laying prostrate trees, 
Warring with mountains, or in agonies 
Stretching his arms to bis paternal skies. 



s 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 271 

In tones as wild as maniac throes inspire, 

And from despair collecting all his fire, 

He cries, " Brought'st thou these instruments of 

woe? 
" And shall the feeble lay the mighty low?" — 
The servant trembled, paralyzed with fear, 
Stammering excuses in his lord's deaf ear. 
Alcides seized him with his potent grasp, 
E'en as his master's knees he sought to clasp, 
Suppliant in vain. He whirled him four times > 

round, 
And sent him to the Euboic waves profound, 
Swifter than stones from battering rams re- ' 

bound. 

He harden'd in the aerial element ; 
And as they say, that showers with cold cement 
Transformed to snow, or as the snow congealed, 
Its softer essence to crisp hail doth yield ; 
So do the legends of the ancient world 
Recount, that he, by rapid impulse hurled, 
Became a statue in his headlong course, 
Bloodless from fear, exanimate from force. — 
Now in the Euboic gulf the rock remains, 
And still its human symmetry retains. 
Still, as if sensitive, the sailors fear 
To injure its repose, and cruize too near. 



272 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

For thee, thou venerated son of Jove, 
Trees were cut down in GEta's loftiest grove ; 
Of these composed a funeral pyre was raised, 
And, ere the consecrated structure blazed, 
Thou gav'st to Paean's son thy shafts and bow, 
Destined once more to lay proud Ilion low ; 
To Paean's son, whose hands assiduous brought 
Flames, which no sooner the congeries caught. 
Than on the summit of the blazing wood, 
By thee the Nemeaean skin was strewed. 
Prone on thy club thou laid'st thy awful head, 
{Thy club last placed on thy funereal bed,) 
With such complacency as might become 
Guests crowned with wreaths, who crowd the 

festive dome. 
And now, the flames diffused in every part, 
Pervade the limbs, pervade the yielding heart 
Of him, who with the elevated pride 
Of virtue, their rapaciousness defied. 
E'en Gods beheld the agonies with fear, 
Of the avenger of this earthly sphere. 
Whom thus great Jove with joyful face address'd, 
Pleased that compassion stole from breast to 

breast : 
<c Your terror is my triumph ! Powers above, 
4( Pleased do I witness with exulting lov£, 



THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 273 

K< That I am hailed as Father and as Lord, 

<( By tribes that gratefully obey my word ! 

" Nor- less rejoice I that my dying son 

u Hath heaven's accumulated suffrage won. 

*t And, since 'tis freely offered, grateful view 

u This homage, indispensably his due. 

" Lest in your faithful bosoms vain fears rise, 

u The (Etean flames I warn you to despise ; 

r Who conquered all things, he shall conquer 

too 
" Those fires ye see; Vulcan can nought subdue, 
" Save his maternal part. What from me came 
" Is deathless, and obnoxious to no flame. 
" Him I will welcome- to the blest abodes, 
p And trust my will is praised by all the gods ; 
P Yet, if there's one that murmurs e'en in 

thought, 
P And grudges honours, though so dearly bought, 
r That one shall be constrained my son to meet, 
P With face that welcomes, and with looks that 

greet." 

The gods assented. But Olympus' Queen, 
Although she heard the rest with placid mien, 
With an indignant face Jove's last words heard ; 
Stung with reproof thus openly incurred. 



274 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 

Meanwhile the power of Vulcan purged away 

Whate'er remained of perishable clay. 

Alcides' renovated form survived, 

Of all maternal elements deprived ; 

That form transfigured could not now be known, 

And in its glories Jove's own image shone. 

As when a renovated snake appears, 

Freed from the accumulated slough of years ; 

As this luxuriates in its recent pride, 

So when the son of Jove had thrown aside 

Whate'er was mortal ; when from earth unchained^ 

His better part the due ascendant gained ; 

August he seemed, and awful like the gods, 

A worthy inmate of the blest abodes. 

His sire omnipotent the hero shrouds. 
In rolling majesty of hollow clouds, 
Drawn in a car by steeds as swift as wind : 
And 'mid the stars his final home assigned* 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 



T 2 



ARGUMENT. 

Ceyx, king of Trachinia, had been visited by Peleus, who 
fled from his country in consequence of the murder of 
his half-brother Phocus, the son of the Nereid Psamathe. 
The realms of Ceyx were laid waste by a wolf sent by 
Psamathe, as a punishment for this reception of Peleus* 
Ceyx also lamented his brother Daedalion changed into 
a hawk by Apollo, and his niece Chione slain by Diana* 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 



Ceyx meantime, on whose heart sad thoughts 

sate 
From portents cleaving to his brother's fate, 
And from succeeding ones, prepares to go 
To the Clarian shrine, a pilgrim worn with woe, 
That he might — solacers of human ills — 
There question the unerring oracles. 
For impious Phorbas with the Phlegyan crew, 
Those who would visit sacred Delphos, slew. 

Yet, first of all, most fond Alcyone, 
His pious purpose he divulged to thee ! 
Through all thy frame a death-like tremor ran, 
Thy face so lately bright, was shrunk and wan, 
And tears profuse flowed down thy livid cheek, 
Thrice sobs forbade, and thrice thou triedst to 

speak. 
At last, with fond complainings broke by sights 
" What fault of mine hath changed thy mind," 

she cries, 



278 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

" Spouse, most beloved? — Where is the care 

which late 
" My every wish strove to anticipate ? 
" And, is it come to this, that thou canst be 
%i At ease, and absent from Alcyone ? 
" That in the journey's length thou canst rejoice ? 
" My absence, than my presence, more thy choice? 
" But yet I think, that thou by land mayest go ; 
" Thus fear will not be added to my woe. 
" The sea and all its images I dread, 
" Oft on the shore I've seen torn rafters spread, 
" And cenotaphs, engraven with a name, 
" Deaths, unappeased by sepulture, proclaim. 
" IS or let fallacious hopes thy breast inspire, 
" That *CEolus will prove to thee a sire, 
" Who all the winds compresses in his cave, 
" And when he wills, or calms, or lifts the wave. 
" When once the boisterous storms have ventur- 
ed forth, 
" They treat without respect the sea and earth, 
" To them is nought forbidden. Clouds they vex, 
" And e'en the thunderbolts of Jove perplex. 
" In my paternal home, in days of yore, 
" I knew them well, oft listening to their roar. 

* OEolus was, according to Ovid, the father of Alcyone. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 279 

" And, as the more I knew them, they appear'd, 
" And still appear, more worthy to be feared. 
" But, since no prayers thy purpose can o'er- 

throw, 
" And thou art certainly resolved to go, 
" Take me, together with thee, spouse most 

dear; 
94 We then shall have one lot : nor shall I fear 
" Beyond what I endure : whate'er it be, 
* We shall be fellow- sufferers : equally 
w Shall we confront the dangers of the sea." 



i 



While poor Alcyone expressed her fears 
In such words made more eloquent from tears ; 
Her star-born* Lord with equal pangs was moved; 
Who loves himself as much as he is loved. 
Yet not for this the voyage will he forbear, 
Or let Alcyone the danger share. 
He answers her, her timid breast to cheer, 
With many words ; yet could he not raise there, 
One thought to reconcile her to his scheme. 
To these he also added this one theme, 
Which as palliative might work upon, 
And reconcile, the loved and loving one. 
" All separation will to us seem long : 
" But yet to this world if I still belong, 

* Ceyx was the son of Lucifer. 



280 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

"I swear to thee, by Lucifer, that ere 

" Yon moon hath twice fulfilled her month's 

career, 
" I will return to thee !"* — When thus a scope 
He had given, by promised swift return, to hope, 
He straightway bade the ship to be unmoored 
From the harbour, and with tackle to be stored. 
This saw Alcyone once more fear-stricken, 
Prescient of future woes, while present thicken.f 
Her husband she embraced ; tears in full tide 
Gushed forth ; at last the wretched creature cried, 
In accents most disconsolate, " farewel !" 
And on the shore, with powers suspended, fell. 

While Ceyx sought delay, in two-fold rows 
Each mariner, impatient of repose, 
Obliquely poised his oar from his strong breast, 
Or clave in equal strokes the wave's curl'd crest. 

She raised her streaming eyes, and saw her 
spouse 
Stand on the curved ship; and, while time allows, 



* Or, — " I swear by Lucifer's paternal sphere, 

u Ere yon moon twice Uath filled her month's career, 

i€ I will again, Alcyone, be here." 

t Or,— " This saw Alcyone, once more struck dumb 

" With fear, as prescient of the woes to come. 



j 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 281 

In dear salute his waved hand she discerned, 
Waved towards her : the signal she returned. 

When now the lessening* ship withdrew from 
shore 
And the loved features she could see no more ; 
Yet still that ship she followed with her eyes, 
Till distance, e'en the ken of love, defies ; 
Yet still the trembling top-sail she did view, 
Or thought she viewed it, in the horizon blue: 
And still her eyes drank in this little spot,* 
Till distance made one universal blot; 
Till hope was gone that she could longer see, 
And nought remain'd but Fancy's imagery. 

Yet even then the haunting form would rise, 
Now fade, now swim before her aching eyes; 
Till with the unreal conflict sick and faint, 
Doubtful if Fancy, or if Truth, did paint 

* The author is aware that, in the following lines, to the 
end of the next paragraph, he has amplified the sense of 
the original writer, but he pleads forgiveness from his 
readers, on the score, that though he may have departed 
from his prototype as respects the number of words, he 
has not violated that which an enlightened reader might 
ascribe to him, as respects the tone, character, and ten- 
dency of his ideas. 



282 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

The feverish images that round her dance : 
She sinks upon the shore in powerless trance. 

But when the mourner raised her eyes once 
more, 
Disconsolate she tottered from the shore ; 
Anxiously fond, she sought the empty bed, 
And on the widowed pillow laid her head. 
The tears again sprang from the room and bed, 
For he that gave to them a charm was fled. 

And now the ship, the furthest headland 
passed ; 
The breezes rose, and shook the creaking mast. 
To the bark's side the oars now useless cling, 
The sailors hoist the yard, and cheerly sing. 
Slacken the cable, and unreeve the sail, 
And welcome joyfully the coming gale. 

Scarce had the ship half ploughed the watery 
way, 
And either climes at equal distance lay ; 
When foamy-crested billows rolling white, 
Gleamed through the universal gloom of night: 
And the swift east wind blew with fiercer might; 
" Lower the yard-arms," now the pilot cried, 
" Be all the canvas to the sail-yard tied." 



i 



J 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 283 

The adverse storm forbids him to be heard, 
And crashing billows intercept each word. 
Yet, of their own accord, some ply the oar, 
The heaving broadside some with care explore ; 
Some reef the sails ; some at the pumps intent, 
Restore the waters to their element. 
Some lower the sail-yards. While, with labour 

vain, 
These things were done, the tempest raged amain. 
The boisterous winds wage war on every side, 
And mix tumultuously th' indignant tide. 
Even the master of the ship betrayed, 
By every look and word, a heart dismayed. 
He knew not what to shun or what to will, 
So much more powerful, than his art, the ill. 
Discordant clamours from the seamen rise, 
The creaking cables echo to their cries. 
The mighty waves with mightier waves contend, 
And lightnings fire the clouds, and thunders 

rend. 
The monstrous billows touch the etherial dome, 
And with the lowering clouds confound their 

foam : 
Now yellow, mixed with boiling sands, they 

seem, 
Now are they blacker than the Stygian stream; 



284 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

And sometimes, foaming from the tempest's 

shock, 
Comparatively calm, they heave, and rock. 
The bark, by these vicissitudes engrossed, 
From wave to wave is piteously tossed. 
And now aloft, as from a mountain's brow, 
The depths of Acheron it sees below ; 
And now, while curling waves above her rise, 
Sees from infernal gulfs the lofty skies. 
Her sides, assaulted by the wave, rebound, 
And with the crash as vehemently sound 
As when the iron battering-ram assails, 
And o'er the tottering wall at last prevails. 
And as fierce lions, fiercer from the chase, 
Present their breasts, and levelled weapons face; 
So when the wave had felt the tempest's strength, 
Backed by a second power, it fell, at length, 
With vast explosion, on the powerless hulk, 
And whelmed the tackle in its bursting bulk. 
The unpitched crannies gape, the wedges slip, 
And fatal billows occupy the ship. 
From opening clouds prodigious showers descend* 
With the black ocean ether seems to blend. 
The swelling billows to the poles arise, 
And waves unite with cataracts of the skies. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 285 

The sails with moisture drip : the air lacks 

light; 
And denser tempests shroud the densest night. 
Yet, fitfully careering, lightnings glide, 
With sulphurous track along the lurid tide ; 
A billow mightier than the rest doth leap, 
Within the cavern of the covered ship; 
And, as the soldier of surpassing might, 
Who oft hath dared the entrenched foe to fight, 
At length enjoys his wish, by fame inspired, 
And gains the battlements so long desired 
Alone, while thousand comrades round him gaze, 
And fire the hero with astonished praise; 
So when the invincible and furious tide 
Hath beaten long the vessel's lofty side, 
This billow rising with a fiercer gale, 
The weary ship desists not to assail ; 
Till, having gained its purpose, it descends, 
And with the interior compartments blends. 
And now without the ship was tempest tossed, 
And now within by billows was engrossed. 
E'en as a city trembles, when combine 
The arrowy shower, the subterranean mine ; 
By foes within it partially possessed, 
By foes without unceasingly oppressed, 



i's tear ; "\ 
:es home f 

,t fear, j 



286 ceyx and alcyone; 

Trembles the crew. No longer art prevails ; 
And in the stoutest resolution fails. 
And oft as o'er the ship the billows leap, 
So oft are victims hurried to the deep ; 
Some weep. Some stand in motionless despair ; 
Some envy those who funeral honours share, 
Some spread their ineffectual arms on high, 
And utter pleadings to the unseen sky. 
Parents, or brothers, waken this man 5 
That thinks of home, and all that makes 

dear : 
Each man's affection shapes his secret 
Alcyone alone her Ceyx moves, 
He breathes no name but that of her he loves. 
To think of her, and wish for her, is one ; 
Yet is he happiest to be there alone. 
To find his native coast his glances roam, 
Their last looks turn towards their much-loved 

home. 
But where it lies he knows not. AH the sky 
By pitchy clouds is hidden from his eye. 
With eddying whirl the ocean boils around, 
And two-fold night broods o'er the abyss pro- 
found. 
The mast and rudder, by the whirlwind's sweep, 
Torn from the vessel, float upon the deep. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 287 

The wave triumphant, standing on the deck, 
Surveys the waves that all around it break ; 
Nor doth it less precipitously rush, 
Less irresistibly the fragments crush, 
Than if some god indignantly had hurled 
Athos, and Pindus, on the watery world. 
This wave omnipotent alike from weight, 
And vehemence, the vessel and its freight, 
The greater part of the unhappy crew, 
Destined no more the light of day to view, 
With a deep gulphing crash, in which are 

drowned 
Shrieks and laments, sweeps to the vast profound. 

A few, the remnant of the wretched train, 
Cleave to the fragments of the ship in vain. 
And Ceyx's hands, a sceptre wont to grasp, 
A floating rafter now are fain to clasp. 

Alas ! all ineffectually he prayed, 
To Lucifer, and CEolus, for aid ! 
But chiefly the spent swimmer's latest breath, 
Gasping, invoked Alcyone in death. 
Her he remembers, and recalls to mind, 
And wishes fervently that waves more kind 



} 




388 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

His body to her tender gaze may bear ; 

And that his cold remains at last may share 

Pious interment from her faithful care. 

Thus while he swims, as often as the sea 

Allows free speech, he names Alcyone ; 

And when the waves themselves he sunk beneath, 

That much-loved name in murmurs did he breathe, 

Behold, in 'mid sea o'er his head there 

A volume of arch'd waters, foam-emboi 

And in its mighty mass the wretch was 

That night was Lucifer obscure, nor eye 

Of man could recognize his brilliancy. 

And since to quit the Heaven was disallowed, 

He veiled his visage with the impervious cloud. 

Mean time Alcyone, who little guessed 
What woes awaited her devoted breast, 
Counted the nights. Each vestment she surveyed 
With which his manly form shall be arrayed, 
Each female robe, that had been laid aside 
Till his return, shall make her twice a bride : 
That blest return, to which her sanguine mind, 
Without reserve, its every thought resigned. 
To all the immortals frankincense she brought, 
But chiefly Juno's favour she besought ; 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 289T 

And to the altars of that power she came, 
To pray for him who now was but a name. 
His safety she implored with suppliant tone, 
And that his constant heart might be her own. 
Alas ! of all her orisons this one, 
Was granted, to her heart's desire, alone. 
Juno, who, not without impatience, heard 
These vain petitions for the dead preferred ; 
And that Alcyone may no more stain 
Her holy altars with her touch profane, 
To Iris cried, " My faithful messenger, 
u Without delay to Somnus' court repair ; 
" Bid him, with Ceyx' form, a dream create, 
" And to Alcyone his death relate." 
She said, the vest around her Iris threw, 
Which shone resplendent with each varying hue. 
With an arched course the sky she seemed to 

sweep, 
Seeking the dwelling of the god of sleep ! 

O'er caverned labyrinths of profound repose 
A hollow mount near climes Cimmerian rose ; 
The house and hiding place of sluggish Sleep : 
Here the sun's rays morn, noon, or eve ne'er peep. 
Clouds mixed with vapours issue from the ground, 
And an uncertain twilight broods around. 
u 



290 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

The shrill-toned clamour of the crested bird 

To hail Aurora here is never heard. 

Nor guardian dog, nor geese,* a wiser brood, 

Invade the voiceless, drowsy solitude. 

Nor beasts, nor birds, nor gale-fanned leaves are 

found, 
Nor human tongues emit a brawling sound. 
Calm quiet dwells there. From the rocky source, 
The listless Lethe flows with slothful course ; 
And as its waters o'er smooth pebbles creep, 
Its liquid lapses lull to languid sleep. 
Around the entrance of this cavern grew 
Poppies, and herbs of many-coloured hue : 
And humid night with juice of these doth steep 
The dark earth's tribes in slumber. There doth 

creep 
No dissonance of crazy hinge to the ear 
From any door : no guards are stationed there. 
But in the centre of the hall is spread, 
On posts of ebony, a downy bed ; 
And, as a couch in state where dead kings lie, 
Sable its hangings, and its canopy. 
On this, with head upon his breast that hung, 
The god, in languid attitude was flung. 

* This alludes to the Capitol being saved by geese, 
during the assault of Rome by the Gauls. 






CEYX AND ALCYONE. 291 

Countless as grains of sand on ocean's shore, 
As leaves in spring, or autumn's harvest store, 
So flitting visions round the monarch swarm, 
Assuming quaint diversities of form. 
The sacred edifice, abruptly bright, 
Reflected back an unaccustomed light, 
Soon as the entering virgin had dispersed. 
The opposing phantoms which from all sides 
burst. 

The god, who scarce his eye-lids could unclose. 
And o'er and o'er relapsing to a doze, 
Smiting his breast with nodding chin, at length 
Put forth reluctantly his sluggish strength ; 
And, leaning on his arm, — tho' he knew well, — 
Enquired why thus the virgin sought his cell. 

" Oh Sleep, thou rest of all things here," she 
cries, 
" Sleep, placidest of gods, from whom care flies: 
" Peace of the soul, who soothest hearts subdued 
t* With daily toil, by thee for toil renewed ; — 
" Let dreams, which imitate each real thing, 
" Go, in the semblance of the luckless King, 
*' To Herculean Trachis ; and, to his spouse, there 
" The shipwreck's dire catastrophe declare ? 
u 2 



292 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

" This Juno asks." Her functions ending here, 
Iris departs : nor could she longer bear 
The vapour's influence ; as she felt that sleep 
Subtly began through all her limbs to creep, 
Abrupt she fled ; returning, half-entranced, 
By the same bow o'er which she lately glanced.* 

From his innumerable race, the sire 
Of thousand sons, doth only one require, 
Morpheus, expert alike to represent 
Another's form, or new ones to invent. 
No one like him is skilled to personate 
The countenance, the dialect, the gait; 
With these too the habiliments to join, 
And to each character its air assign. 
Morpheus alone the human figure takes, 
Another represents birds, beasts, and snakes : 
Second in dignity, Phobetor named 
On earth, in heaven Icelos proclaimed. 
There is a third from these distinguished still, 
Who mere material shapes assumes at will. 

* Or, " This Juno asks." Her fuuetions being done, 
Iris prepared the dense abode to shun ; 
The goddess, with its influence half entranced, 
Swift as before along the rainbow glanced. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 203 

His subtle form he modifies with ease, 
To senseless earth, stones, rivers, rocks, and 
trees. 

These shew, " the prime in order and in might," 
To leaders and to kings, their forms at night. 
The rest, subaltern vassals, wait their nod, 
" The small militia" of the drowsy God. 
Old Somnus passed by these ; and chose but one 
From all his subject tribes, Morpheus alone, 
For Juno's high behest ; then laid his head, 
Dissolved in dozing languor, on his bed. 
Through night with noiseless pennons Morpheus 

flies, 
And swiftly lights where Trachis' walls arise. 
With changed proportions, no more clad in 

plumes, 
The lineaments of Ceyx he assumes. 
And, in that semblance, pallid, like one dead, 
He stands, Alcyone, before thy bed. 
His dripping beard, and saturated hair, 
Before he speaks, the fatal news declare. 
Then stooping o'er thy bed, tears fill his eyes, 
" Dost thou thy wretched husband recognize ; 
" Or is my form quite changed by death ?" he 

cries. 



1 



294 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

" Look at me ; and most fond Alcyone, 

" Instead of him you love, a shadow see ! 

" Nought could thy unavailing prayers perform, 

u Spite of these prayers I perished in the storm. 

" Oh, do not promise to thyself, anew, 

" Deluded woman, me, on earth, to view. 

" The cloudy south-wind intermix'd with rain, 

" Shatter'd the vessel in the JEgean main. 

" As I invok'd Alcyone in death, 

" The envious billows choak'd my struggling 

breath. 
" No doubtful author tells this tale in sport, 
" Nor dost thou hear it from a vague report. 
" Both actor and spectator, I relate 
" Without disguise, my melancholy fate. 
" Arise — shed tears — sigh with suspended 

breath, 
" And put on mourning garments for my death. 
" And let me not to Tartarus depart, 
" Unwept by her who rul'd my faithful heart/' 
To this did Morpheus add that voice well known, 
Which could belong to Ceyx's lips alone. 
And real tears he shed. Her spouse belov'd, 
Spake in each word, in every gesture mov'd. 
Alcyone was heard to groan and weep, 
And stretch'd her arms to clasp him in her sleep. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE, 295 

The unsubstantial shadow mock'd her woe — 
She cried : " ah stay, let us together go !" 
Rous'd by the dream, and terror's frantic start, 
The slumbers of Alcyone depart. 
And first, with eager, anxious look, she view'd 
The spot, where late, the form of Ceyx stood. 
Her handmaids, who o'erheard the frantic 

scream, 
Instantly brought the taper's cheerful gleam. 
But when no form of Ceyx it reveaPd, 
She rent the garment which her breast conceal'd : 
She smote her face, her breast smote o'er and 

o'er, 
And the rich tresses from her temples tore. 

Her nurse, her cause for sorrow sought to 

know, 
" Alcyone is nothing, nothing now ! 
46 With consolation mock me not !" she cried, 
" Perish'd Alcyone when Ceyx died. 
" ShipwreckM he died ! — His spectre I have 

seen, 
" I recogniz'd at once that well known mien ! 
" With outstretch'd hands I sought the shade to 

clasp, 
" The shadow disappear'd, and fled my grasp. 



296 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

" But, though the unreal form so soon was lost, 
" Twas no impostor, but my husband's ghost. 
" He had not, I confess, his wonted bloom, 
" His lustre was usurp'd by death's pale gloom. 
" Wan, naked, dripping from the briny flood, 
" Alas, I saw him — on this place he stood." 
And saying this, she anxiously explor'd 
The spot which lately bore her shipwreck'd Lord. 
" This, this, accounts for all my boding fears ! 
" Hence I oppos'd his purpose with my tears. 
" And much I wish, since thou hast gone and 

died, 
" That thou hadst still retain'd me by thy side. 
" To have join'd thy fortunes, whatsoe'er they 

were, 
" Would have been soothing to my tender care. 
" Life's latest passages had then been shar'd, 
" And half the pang of dissolution spar'd. 

" I die now unsupported by thy love, 
" Absent, the furies of the ocean prove ; 
" Unsooth'd, unfriended, from the scene afar 
" I am devoted to the tempest's war. 
" My mind would be more cruel than the sea, 
" If I should toil to live bereft of thee. 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 297 

" But neither will I toil : nor, my life's lord, 
" Will I leave thee, thou faithfully deplor'd. 
" I come, companion of thy fate, I come ! 
" Words, if not urns, shall join us in the tomb. 
" And if our bones divided mansions claim, 
u At least, the inscription shall unite each 
name." 

Sorrow prohibits more, and frantic cries 
Choak the unfinish'd accents as they rise. 
And from the anguish of her tortur'd heart 
Bursts the convulsive throb, and frantic start. 

Twas morning — from her desolate abode 
Towards the ocean-beach she slowly trod. — 
Anxious each sacred image to record, 
The spot she seeks where last she saw her lord. 
u And here," she cried, " on this still-conscious 

shore, 
" He sigh'd the parting farewel o'er and o'er. 
" And here the kiss, springing towards the wave, 
" Of everlasting separation gave !" — 
While with distraction not to be express'd, 
And pangs known only to love's fated breast, 
Object on object, thoughts on thoughts arise, 
And while she views the main with wistful eyes, 



298 CEYX AND ALCYONE. 

At distance, in the liquid wave, behold, 

A form, she knows not what, is toward her 

roll'd. 
At first, 'tis doubtful what the form may be ; 
But soon driven nearer by the flowing sea, 
Tho' distant still, a human corse she knew, 
And shudder'd at the grief-awakening view. 
And tho', that this was Ceyx, she ne'er guess'd, 
The omen smote her superstitious breast. 
As for a stranger shipwreck'd tears she shed, 
" Oh, if thou'st left a wife !" she shivering said. 
Over the wave the tilting body sails, 
The more she sees it, more her reason fails. 
Driven at last to the approaching land, 
She saw a figure lying on the strand 
But too well known. It was her husband's corse. 
" It is ! — it is !" she screams with frantic force. 
Again her garment, face, and hair, she rends, 
And cries, as trembling o'er the corse she bends, 
" Oh, agonizing spectacle to see ! — 
" Thus, most dear husband, dost thou come to 



me! 



i" 



An artificial pier the waves defied, 
And stopp'd the incursion of the threat'ning tide; 



CEYX AND ALCYONE. 299 

Hither she sprung — 'twas wondrous that she 

could — 
She flew — and skimm'd the surface of the flood, 

With recent wings, a miserable bird ; 

And, while she flutters, from her beak is heard 
A creaking murmur, immelodious, faint, 
Like to the tones of desolate complaint. 

She sought the bloodless form, and oft caress'd, 
With flapping pinions, the beloved breast; 
And often gave upon the sunken cheek 
Cold kisses with her ineffectual beak. — 
Tis doubted whether Ceyx felt th' embrace, 
Or, lifted by the billows, rais'd his face. 
He rea!ly felt it : and by pity mov'd, 
Some god transform'd them both, since both had 

lov'd. 
But still the same propensities remain, 
Their hearts their ancient faithfulness retain. 
As birds, they still their former joys retrace, 
And become parents to a numerous race. 
Alcyone for seven placid days 
Her floating nest upon the wave displays ; 
Calm is the ocean. CEolus decrees, 
To serve his offspring's need, unruffled seas. 



THE 

DEATH OF ACHILLES, 

AND 

THE CONTEST 

OF 

AJAX AND ULYSSES 

FOR HIS ARMS. 






THE DEATH OF ACHILLES, 

tfC. 



But he who with his trident rules the storm, 
Mourns with paternal mind his son's* chang'd 

form. 
He marks Achilles with resentment dire, 
And exercises his enduring ire. 
Then to Apollo he address'd his woes, 
When on the lengthen'd war the last year rose. 
P Oh, Phoebus, thou whom far the most I love, 
94 Of all the offspring of Almighty Jove ; 
" Who foundedst with me Ilion's sacred wall, 

Knd lofty palaces, now doom'd to fall ; 
oes not thy bosom heave th' indignant groan, 
> see these walls by hostile arms o'erthrown? 

* Cyguus, the son of Neptune, changed to a swan. 



304 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" Dost thou not grieve for thousands good and 

brave, 
" Who dying, fought in vain these towers to save? 
" Do not thy thoughts resentfully recal, 
" The mighty Hector dragg'd round Ilion's wall? 
" And yet he lives, than war itself more dire, 
" The fierce Achilles, and defies our ire ! — 
" But let him once be subject to my rage, 
" And he shall learn what war a god can wage ! 
" But since he is not in my kingdom found, 
" Do thou inflict th ? unapprehended wound." 
The god consented — nYd with vengeance strong, 
By public hatred and by private wrong : 
Clad in a cloud, he bent towards Troy his 

flight, 
And there found Paris in the thickest fight. 
Ignobly scattering his unfrequent blows 
On undistinguish'd and ignoble foes. 
Beside the chief the god apparent stood, 
" Why dost thou waste thy darts on vulgar 

blood? 
'■ If lofty enterprize thy breast inflame, 
" Turn to Achilles thy ambitious aim, 
" Avenge thy murder'd brothers ; and destroy, 
" By one decisive blow, the curse of Troy." 






THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 30£ 

And, as he thus exhorted him, he shew'd 
Pelides' sword in Trojan gore embrued. 
He gave the bow a more resistless force, 
He gave the arrow a more certain course. 
Tho' Hector now was dead, this master stroke 
A transient joy in Priam's bosom woke* — 
Thou, therefore, oh Pelides, who didst boast 
Invincible success, thyself an host, 
Transferredst now the glory of thy name 
To the Seducer of a Grecian Dame ! 
Rather hadst thou, than fall by such a foe, 
Penthesilea's axe had given the blow : 
Death by an Amazon had seem'd to thee. 
Glory compar'd to such a victory. 

And now that terror of the Phrygian race, 
Of boasting Greece the glory and the grace. 
The unexampled hero is entomb'd, 
And the same god that arm'd the chief consum'd. 
Now of the man who seem'd the bounds to s 

spurn 
Of this low world, his friends the ashes burn ; ( 
And scarce remains what fills the scanty urn. 
But still that glory, matchless and sublime, 
Scorns the cold menace of consuming time. 
x 



} 



306 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

Proportion'd to his valour is his fame ; 

By this Achilles vindicates his name, 

Nor feels pale Tartarus' unreal claim. 

His shield, as if its former master fir'd, 

The furies of conflicting war inspir'd; 

Arms are produc'd from arms. The mighty prize 

Ambition litigates and magnifies. — 

(Mean Ajax, Diomed withdraw, 

And both th' Atridae shrink with conscious awe. 

The innate consciousness alone inflames, 

Which stamps with justice what th' aspirant 

claims ; 
Ajax the elder sprung from Telamon, 
And the ambition of Laertes' son. 
But Agamemnon, with a prudent mind, 
The invidious arbitrement declin'd ; 
The contest to the chieftains he transferr'd, 
Who met obedient to his awful word. 



* The leaders sate. The rest around them 

wheeled ; 
While Ajax, master of the seven-fold shield, 
To these arose. With countenance that spurn'd 
Patient appeal, towards the fleet he turn'd; 

* At this place, in the original, commences the 13th 
book of the Metamorphoses. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 307 

Then the Sigaean shore he sternly eyed, 
Stretch'd forth his hands indignantly, and cried : 
" Shall Ajax, in the presence of that fleet, 
" Oh Jove ! — Ulysses as a rival meet ? 
" Say, did he hesitate that fleet to yield 
44 To flames of Troy ? — which from it I repelled. 
" Then is it safer with feign'd words to fight, 
" Than to meet hand to hand with manly might? 
" As 'tis not mine with dainty phrase to charm, 
" So is my rival powerless to perform. 
" As much as I am blest with martial force, 
" So is he blest with eloquent discourse. 
" Nor needeth it, oh Grecians, that to you 
u I tell my deeds ; those deeds yourselves did 

view. 
" J Tis for Ulysses to repeat his own, 
u Perform'd at night — to all the world unknown. 
" I do confess that great rewards I claim ; 
" Alas, my rival tarnishes their fame. 
" Nor is it glorious to possess the spoil, 
" However great, that urg'd Ulysses' toil. 
f E'en now he bears the prize, since he may say 
'• That he hath rivall'd me for one brief day. 
" But I, e'en tho' equivocal in might, 
" Am potent in hereditary right. 
x 2 



308 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" On me doth Telamon his honours shed, 

" Who took Troy's ramparts by Alcides led. 

** Who, with his trusty Pegasaean band, 

" His vessel steer'd to Colchis' distant strand. 

" His sire was JEacus, who legislates 

" Where Sisyphus is doom'd by sterner fates, 

" To urge eternally the ponderous stone : 

" Him highest Jove confest to be his son. 

'* So am I third from Jove : nor, Grecians, hence 

" Do I infer additional pretence, 

" Did not the ancestral privilege I bear 

" Make me the great Achilles' rightful heir. 

" He was rny brother :* not to mention worth, 

" I seek a brother's arms by right of birth. 

u Why should the blood by Sisyphusf supplied, 

" And by deception most to him allied, 

" The name of Ajax fraudulently place 

" 'Mid the descendants of a foreign race ? 

" Am I to be denied the use of arms, 

" Because I first confronted war's alarms ? 

" Because, with love of martial fame entranc'd, 

" Without persuasion I the first advanc'd ? 

* The children of brothers, as were Achilles and Ajax, 
were formerly called brothers. 

t Sisyphus was a robber, who, according to some 
writers, had an intercourse with Anticlea, the mother 
of Ulysses, before she was married to Laertes. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 309 

u And shall he be preferred who last remain'd, 
" And shunned the conflict with a madness 

feign'd ; 
" Until in cunning stratagem more wise, 
H The son of Nauplius stripped the mean dis- 
guise, 
" The recreant coward, dragg'd to scenes of 

blood* 
" Ruin'd himself, and serv'd the general good? 
" Now are to him the choicest arms assign'd, 
" Who heretofore the use of arms declin'd ? 
" And we, who were ambitious of the fight, 
" Are cheated of hereditary right. 
u I wish the base imposture had deceiv'd, 
" Or real madness every sense bereav'd ; 
" And that this mover of atrocious crime 
" Had never come to Phrygia's hostile clime. 
" Then Philocletes, infamously doom'd, 
M His days on Lemnos' shore had not consum'd. 
46 Who now, they say, laments with bitter groans, 
" In sylvan caves conceal'd, that soften stones. 
u Who lifts to heaven the imprecating cry, 
u Which the just gods shall hear and ratify. 
" And now the man confederate oaths who swore, 
" One of the leaders to this hostile shore, 



310 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" One to whom Hercules his shafts consign'd, ■ 
" Oppress'd with hunger, rack'd with tortur'd j 

mind, 
" Is cloth'd and fed by birds, than men more ' 

kind. 

" And to procure subsistence does employ 
" Those arrows destin'd to the fall of Troy. 
" Yet still he lives, exempted by the fates 
" From dangerous fellowship with one who hates. 
" Had there the son of Nauplius been exil'd, 
" He would have liv'd, by slander unrevil'd. 
" Or dying there, he might have blest the lot 
" That sav'd his name from ignominious blot. 
" Ulysses, who a secret hate indulg'd, 
" Since Palamedes to the world divulg'd 
" The simulated lunatic, who tried 
" His real fears by feign'd disease to hide, 
iC Alleged that he the Grecian cause betray'd, 
" And speciously th' invented crime display 'd. 
" The gold which he had previously conceal'd, 
" With execrable artifice reveal'd. 
" Thus he, by exile, or by death, at length, 
" Contrives to palsy the Pelasgan strength. 
" Thus must Ulysses, if he fights, be fear'd; 
" Who, though, oh Nestor, hero much rever'd, 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 311 

" Thee he excel in speech, 'twill not efface 
¥ The shame that stamps the coward with dis- 
grace ; 
" Or bribe the most indulgent to exalt 
" Thy base desertion to a venial fault. 
" Weary with age, and by a wound delay'd, 
u The Pylian king implores Ulysses' aid ; 
" The apostate friend, the evasive miscreant 

flies, 
" Deaf to the venerable monarch's cries. 
" Witness Tydides, whom the sight did grieve, 
" If word I utter wrong the fugitive ! — 
" Who oft by prayers, importunate and stern, 
" Conjur'd the trembling recreant to return; 
" And, like a warrior that is strange to fear, 
" Tax'd his desertion with reproof severe. 
" The gods behold mankind with equal eyes ; 
u He, who refus'd it, now for succour cries. 
u He is deserted as he did desert : 
" His own mean maxims on himself revert. 
" He calls his friend. I heard his panting breath, 
" I saw his horror at approaching death. 
" I interpos'd the shelter of my shield, 
" And screen'd him lying prostrate on the 
field. 



312 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES, 

" I lengthen'd out his life for future days ; 

" Of all my deeds the one that least claims 

praise. 
" If thou persistest to dispute the prize, 
" Visit the place that echoed to thy cries. 
" Bring back the foe, and let the wound appear, 
u The suppliant posture, and the former fear. 
" Nestle beneath the shelter of the shield, 
u And in that shelter to thy rival yield. 
" When I had sav'd him, whom a wound denies, 
" The power to stand — lo ! free from wound he 

flies. 
u Hector was present, and from their abodes 
" Allurd to battle the auxiliar gods. 
" Not only Ithacus, where he appear'd, 
" But e'en the boldest of the Grecians fear'd. 
" Such universal terror did inspire 
" That arm of thunder, and that soul of fire. 
" I presently the enormous chief subdued, 
" Exulting in the waste of hostile blood. 
" I alone check'd him, seeking with proud aim 
" A rival worthy of his lofty name. 
" Petitions for my life the Greeks preferr'd, 
" The general importunity was heard. 
" And if you seek the fortune of the strife, 
" Submission tarnish'd not my former life. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 313 

u Behold the Trojans sword and fire unite, 
" And Jove himself, against the fleet to fight. 
" Where now was eloquent Ulysses gone ? 
" For I protected, with my breast alone, 
" A thousand ships which Troy prepar'd to 

burn, 
* Your sole reliance for secure return. 
" Oh, let these arms the rescued ships repay ! — 
u And if 'tis lawful what I feel to say, 
" 'Tis I to yield a prize that ye condemn ! 
" The arms seek Ajax, and not Ajax them ! 

11 With these exploits let Ithacus compare 
" Rhesus and Dolon slain in baby war! 
" Th' inveigled Helenus at night decoy 'd, 
" And with her stol'n palladium Troy destroyed: 
" Nothing is done except in night's dim shade, 
" Nothing is done without Tydides' aid. 
u If once such poor deserts claim such regard, 
" Divide the arms, and Diomed reward. 
" Yet if your hearts to equity incline, 
" To Diomed the greater part assign ! — 
f But why to Ithacus these arms adjudge, 
" Who fights as if he owed a private grudge. 
u Who evermore insidiously beguiles 
" His simple rival by atrocious wiles. 



314 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" The golden helmet that reflects the day 

" The coward's snug concealment will betray. 

" His head droops consciously, and disavow* 

" The weight adapted to Achilles' brows. 

" Unwarlike arms are all unfit to wield 

" The Pelian javelin, and the Pelian shield. 

" The vast circumference by worlds emboss'd, 

" Fits not the timid hand by thefts engross'd. 

" WTiy dost thou seek, oh man of little soul, 

" Debilitating treasures to control ? 

" And if the Grecians thus these arms employ, 

" 'Tis that thou may'st be spoil'd, not fear'd, by 

Troy. 
" And flight, in which alone thou dost succeed, 
" Such trophies would provokingly impede. 
" Add that thy shield, so much in battle spar'd, 
" Preserves its gloss, untarnish'd, unimpair'd. 
" While mine half shatter'd, and no more a guard, 
" Admits the weapon which it ought to ward. 
" But why should I debase myself to plead 
" The best persuasive is the heroic deed. 
" 'Mid yonder hostile host these trophies throw, 
u And them, on him who rescues them, bestow." 

Here the impetuous Ajax made a pause, 
His speech was follow'd by a loud applause. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 315 

Until Ulysses from his seat did rise, 
Fix'd on the ground awhile his lingering eyes; 
Then slowly rais'd them to the Chiefs around, 
And from his lips breath'd the expected sound. 
Nor was there wanting courtly eloquence, 
Or flowing periods dignified by sense. 

" If, oh ye Grecians, vows alike preferr'd, 
" By you and me propitiously were heard, 
" It would not seem ambiguous whose should be, 
" In this momentous strife, the victory. 
" Still Greece her lov'd Achilles should enjoy, 
" And he, in her defence, his arms employ. 
" But since unequal Fate to me denies, 
" And you, a presence that we so much prize,'* 
(And here across his brow his hands he drew, 
As if he felt th' involuntary dew,) 
Jf Who is more fit than he who gain'd his aid, 
" To gain the arms which Pelias' son array 'd ? 
" Unless, perchance, it serves my rival's need 
" That he seems stupid, as he is indeed. 
u Unless, perchance, my skill, by doom perverse, 
u Spent in your service, now must be my curse. 
" And if that power, which now its lord defends, 
u That power so oft exerted for my friends : 
" That eloquence, if eloquence it be, 
" Plead from depreciating envy free. 






316 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" My generous friends, forgive the infirmity ! 
" All see their natural gifts with partial eye. 
*' The hereditary honours of a name, 
< ' Influence, since unacquir'd, without a claim, 
" Scarce do I call our own, scarce thence pre- 
tensions frame. 
" But since my rival hath thought fit to prove 
" That he is grandson to Almighty Jove, 
u I too may claim, my title to enforce, 
" The same alliance to the same great source. 
" My sire Laertes, from Arcesius springs, 
" The first is offspring to the king of kings. 
" Nor in this unequivocal descent 
" Is one disgrac'd by wrong or banishment. 
" And by Cyllenius, to increase my pride, 
" I am ennobled on my mother's side. 
" Thus both my parents boast a source divine — 
" But the pretensions of my mother's line 
" Outweighing his, that in fraternal blood 
" My father's purer hands were ne'er embrued : 
" This does not urge me on this solemn day 
" To assert my claim. The cause by merit 

weigh. 
" Provided that my rival don't infer, 
" Since Telamon and Peleus brothers were, 
" Claim to success. Provided that the cause 
M Be tried by worth, and not by lineal laws* 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 317 

" But, if proximity of blood must plead, 

" Let the surviving sire or son* succeed. 

" Say, how can Ajax to the arms pretend? 

" The arms to Phthia, or to Scyros send? 

f Teucer like him to Achilles is allied, 

" Yet in his birth he seems not to confide. 

" Then if performance claim the victory, 

* My deeds the bounds of narrative defy. 

" Yet in a brief succession I will seek 

" To sketch those deeds since justice bids me 

speak. 
" Thetis, admonish'd of Achilles' fate, 
u His sex by dress sought to dissimulate. 
" All that beheld him the disguise believ'd, 
" And with the rest e'en Ajax was deceiv'd. 
" I, with his female trappings, interlaid 
u Arms, which as soon as seen the man be- 

tray'd. 
" Ere he resign'd his feminine disguise, 
" He grasp'd the spear and shield before my 

eyes, 
" - Thou, goddess-born/ I cried : * 'tis Heaven's 

decree 
" That fated Pergamus shall fall by thee ! 

* Pelens the father, and Pyrrhus the son of Achilles, 
were still living. 



318 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" Why dost thou hesitate to abolish Troy V 
" I threw my arms around th' aspiring boy, 
" Compell'd the mighty man to deeds of might, 
" And to these arms from hence infer my right. 
" I with my javelin Telephus subdued, 
u And when o'ercome, I staunch'd the suppliant's 

blood. 
" I vanquish'd Thebes — the power of Lesbos 

foil'd— 
*■' Tenedos, Chryse, Cylla, Scyros, spoil'd. 
" And that Lyrnessian haunts are void and 

mute, 
u To my availing enterprize impute. 
" 'Twas my persuasion rais'd against the foe, 
" The arm that laid the mighty Hector low. 
" Hence do I claim the arms Achilles wore, 
" To him who furnish'd them those arms restore. 
" When one man's insult rous'd united Greece, 
" And thousand ships from Aulis sought re- 
lease ; 
" When tantalizing winds expected long, 
4i Were not, or were, contrariously strong ; 
" And when Diana's cruel rage decreed 
" Atrides' unoffending child to bleed ; 
" The father disapprov'd — the Gods disdain'd — 
" And o'er the king the sire triumphant reign'd ; 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 319 

" I, in accordance to the public good, 
" The pleadings of parental love subdued. 
" Nor to confess will Agamemnon grudge, 
" I gain'd a hard cause from a partial judge. 
" At last, the public weal, his brother's cause, 
" The sceptre's stern immitigable laws, 
" The monarch's contumacious mind o'ercame 
" To sacrifice parental love to fame. 
u I was deputed with consummate art 
" T'ensnare the mother's more tenacious heart. 
" Whither, if Ajax had been sent, I ween, 
" Aulis had still our idle vessels seen. 
" I was dispatch'd to Ilion's proud abode, 
64 The pavement of its senate house I trod : 
" As yet 'twas full of men — yet, undismay'd, 
" The cause of Greece I fervently display 'd. 
u Upbraided Paris : Helen's charms reclaim'd : 
" And humbled Priam, and Antenor tam'd. 
" Paris, and those confederate in his rape, 
" Scarce sufFer'd me in safety to escape. 
" This Menelaus knew — from thence we date 
" A common lot expos'd to hostile hate. 
" 'Twould outrage patience if I were to tell, 
" How oft I've fought, how often counsel'd 
well, 



320 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" Since the long siege began. The first fight 

o'er, 
" The Trojans garrisoned, commit no more 
u Their cause to open war : and now, at length, 
" Ten tedious years exhaust our mutual strength. 
" And what canst thou, who lovest to traduce 
" All deeds but those of war, meanwhile pro- 
duce ? 
" But, if thou seekest my exploits to know 
** I fortify the camp, perplex the foe ; 
*' My comrades perseveringly conjure, 
u Protracted war with patience to endure. 
46 How to be arm'd, and how to be sustain'd, 
*' My circumspective providence explained. 
u Where duty, or where difficulty call'd, 
<e I was dispatch'd ; and hasten'd unappall'd. 

" Behold the monarch by a dream engross'd, 
(i Sent by great Jove to lure him from his post, 
" Proclaims return to our confederate force, 
" And vindicates the mandate by its source. 

" Stern Ajax cried, disdaining thoughts of 
peace, 
" That Troy was forfeit to enduring Greece. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 321 

" Whate'er he could, he did, to urge our stay ; 
" Yet could he not th' embarking troops delay. 
" Why doth he not take arms ? — Why not excite 
" The generous wish to perish or to fight? 
" Nor is this service more than fits the post 
" Of one that never speaks except to boast ? 
" What !— And didst thou too fly ?— Spread to 

the gales, 
" I saw, and blush'd to see, thy recreant sails ! 
" I cried without delay, ' What Demons urge 
" Troy to forsake, tottering on fate's last verge? 
" What shall we carry home but infamy, 
" If from a siege of ten years, now we fly V 

" With these, and other words ; while grief 

inspir'd, 
" That eloquence th' emergency requir'd, 
" The contumacious army I reclaim'd ; 
" The weak upbraided, and the strong inflam'd. 
u His trembling comrades Agamemnon calls, 
" Nor one consoling word from Ajax falls. 
" Thersites dar'd to tax the chiefs with wrong, 
" Till I repress'd his contumelious tongue. 
" I rise — and with my eloquence persuade 
" My friends once more the realms of Troy 

t' invade, 

Y 



322 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" And from that period on myself redounds 

" Each glorious exploit that the foe confounds. 

" Oh, say what Greek commemorates thy deeds ? 

" Oh, say what Trojan by thy valour bleeds? 

" To me Tydides every act relates, 

" And triumphs in Ulysses' guardian fates. 

" And from so many of the Grecian name 

" To be preferr'd by Diomed is fame. 

" Nor was I singled out by lot to go ; — 

" Yet in defiance of the night and foe, 

" I ventur'd forth, like Dolon, as a spy, 

" Yet not like Dolon preordain'd to die. 

" Yet did not my right hand its victim slay, 

" Till he was forced distinctly to betray, 

" What projects of defence perfidious Troy 

" Against our armies purpos'd to employ. 

" All things I learn'd, nor any point resign'd> 

" For speculation, or conjecture blind. 

u Now nought forbade return with praise well 

bought, 
u Yet, not contented, Rhesus' tents I sought; 
" And in their tents, him and his friends sub- 
dued — 
" Thus, wheresoe'er I turn'd, success pursued. 
" Blest with my captive, and with prosperous war, 
" In mimic triumph I ascend the car, 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 323 

" And shall ye doubt t'award his arms to me, 
" Whose steeds were pledg'd to Dolon's trea- 
chery ? 
" And shall the son of Telamon, elate 
" In your decision, be more fortunate ? 
" Why should I celebrate Sarpedon's train 
" Strew'd by my valour on the Phrygian plain ? 
" My hand Caeranon and Alaston slew, 
" Chromius, Alcander, Halius overthrew. 
" Thoon, and Prytanis, and Noemon, 
" Charops, Chersidamas, and Ennomon. 
" Five less renown'd beneath the Trojan wall, 
" Vanquish'd by my impetuous valour, fall. 
u And I have honorable wounds to shew, 
" Which might extort respect e'en from a foe. 
" And, that you may believe, behold !" he cried; 
And from his bosom drew his robe aside. 
" Behold the bosom never meanly spar'd, 
" In peace your safety, and in war your guard ! 
" But, Ajax thro' so many years of war, 
" Hath lost no blood, can shew no manly 

scar. 
u That he hath taken arms why should he 

boast, 
" And fought 'gainst Troy and Jove on Asia's 
coast ? 

Y 2 



324 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" He took them I confess ; nor do I aim 
" With cold detraction to asperse his name, 
" But let him not a vain distinction seek 
" From virtues common to the meanest Greek. 
" Patroclus, who Pelides' armour wore, 
" Drove the adventurous Trojans from the shore; 
" Preparing, by an universal doom, 
" Our fleet, and its defender, to consume. 
" You think that you alone dare Hector meet, 
u Forgetful of the monarch of our fleet : 
" Forgetful of our leaders, and of me, 
" The ninth appointed by supreme decree. 
u What was the issue of your mighty war ? 
" Both thou and Hector parted without scar ! 
" With what distress do I those days recall, 
" Which saw the bulwark of the Grecians fall, 
" The stern Achilles ! — Neither grief, nor dread, 
" RepelFd my footsteps from the mighty dead. 
" His form inanimate these shoulders bore, 
" And bore those arms whose honours I im- 
plore. 
" I have a body which can match their size, 
" I have a spirit which their worth can prize. 
u Was it on this account that Thetis, fir'd 
" With high ambition, for her son desir'd 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 325 

" Celestial gifts : that one devoid of soul, 
" Rough, and unpolished, should those gifts con- 
trol? 
" Nor would he comprehend the shield emboss'd 
" With ocean, and the earth's extended coast. 
" With stars, with Pleiades, and Hyades, 
" And Arctus, privileg'd from whelming seas. 
u Where different cities wondrously combine, 
" And where the splendours of Orion shine. 
M And shall he seek to grapple in his hand 
u Arms whose device he will not understand? 
" What! shall he chide me, that with lingering 

feet 
" J join'd, tho' backward, the confederate fleet? 
" And feels he no compunction by such speech, 
" The fame of great Achilles to impeach ? 
" And if it be a crime to simulate, 
" We both must equally excite his hate. 
" Or if delay his indignation warms ; 
" We both delay 'd — tho' I was first in arms. 
" Him, a devoted mother's anxious breast, 
" And, me, a wife's devoted care, repress'd. 
" To them we gave the first conflicting hours ; 
" To you we gave our lives' remaining powers. 
" Nor do I fear an unconfuted blame, 
" Stamp'd with th' alliance of so great a name. 



326 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" But by Ulysses brought, Achilles came ; — 

" Can Ajax to Ulysses say the same ? — 

" Nor can you praise him that his foolish tongue 

" Taxes my conduct with imputed wrong. 

" Me when he domineeringly arraigns, 

" You he asperses with associate stains. 

" If Palamedes' fate be such a blot 

" To the accuser, is each judge forgot? 

" But he was all incompetent to wrest 

" Conviction from a crime so manifest. 

" You saw it — it was openly expos'd : 

" The hidden treasure from the ground disclos'd. 

u Me why should Ajax scornfully revile, 

" That Philoctetes pines in Lemnos' isle ? — 

" Rather, ye Sons of Greece, should you resent 

" A calumny impeaching your consent. 

" Nor can I disavow that I display'd 

" My eloquence, the hero to persuade 

" From war's o'ertasking labours to refrain, 

" And all the perils of the stormy main. — 

" That he, unfit in hardships to engage, 

" Should seek by rest his torments to assuage. 

" He listened, and he lives — my words to prove, 

" As fortunate as they were words of love. 

" Luckless, or lucky, 'twould my cause defend, 

" To prove that what I said became the friend. 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 327 

" Whom, since the seers unanimously call 

" As indispensable to Ilion's fall ; 

" Be not Ulysses sent to Lemnos' coast, 

" Let Ajax bring him to his destin'd post. 

11 Let him the son of Paean mollify, 

" Stung with revenge, and fiercest agony ; 

u Or by some incommunicable art 

" Delude his stern inexorable heart. — 

" Sooner shall Simois retrogressive flow, 

u And naked Ida all its trees forego ; 

" Sooner be Greece confederate with Troy, 

" Than, — if Ulysses ceases to employ, 

u For you his skill in diplomatic laws, — 

" Ajax shall benefit the Grecians' cause. 

" Although, oh Philoctetes ! torrents roll 
" Of dark resentment in thy warring soul ; 
" Though thou the king and me dost execrate, 
H With all the bitterness of bitterest hate ; 
u Tho' thou, without remission, dost ordain 
" My life to dread retributory pain, 
" And dost incessantly with suppliant breath, 
" Implore the means to consummate my death : 
" Yet, as thou seek'st thy foe to subjugate, 
" So shalt thou yield to me tliy passive fate ; 



328 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

u So will I seek thy person to reclaim, 

u And bring thy arrows to their destin'd aim. 

" E'en as the Trojan seer I captive made, 

" Who all the oracles of Troy betray'd : 

" E'en as I ravish'd, with adventurous hand, 

" Troy's strong palladium from the hostile band. 

" And after this shall vaunting Ajax dare 

" Himself with me in prowess to compare ? 

" The Fates forbade that Troy's devoted wall, 

" While the palladium guarded it, should fall. 

" Where then was mighty Ajax? What, not heard, 

" In that conjuncture with one prompting word ? 

" Why didst thou fear the task? and why did I 

" Night's thickest shades, and sentinels, defy? 

" The hostile ranks did not I penetrate ? 

" And, more than this, advance thro' Uion's gate? 

" The thresholds pass of palaces divine, 

" And snatch the goddess from her secret shrine. 

" And, spite of foes, when snatch'd, my steps 

retrace, 
" And in our ramparts the palladium place ? 
" Had I not done this deed, his seven-fold shield, 
" Ajax, in vain, had blazon'd in the field. 
" Our foes' last hope that night my hands de- 
stroy; 
" Making it vincible, I conquer Troy. 



n 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 329 

Oh, cease to look on Diomed askance, 
With envious whispers, and sarcastic glance. 
" In these affairs let him divide the praise. 
" Didst thou thy buckler unassisted raise 
" Our vessels to defend ? A numerous guard 
" Surrounded thee ! — but one my danger shar'd. 
" Yet Diomed had sought this awful spoil, 
" Had he not reckon'd that a warrior's toil 
" Must vail its honours to a wise man's claim ; 
" Not known that might is not the all of fame. 
" The younger Ajax, with more just pretence, 
" Had also sought this splendid recompense ; 
" And fierce Euryphilus, by all unblam'd, 
" Thoas, Idomeneus, the meed had claim'd, 
" Meriones' and Menelaus' voice 
" Had urg'd pretensions, and perplex'd the 

choice. 
" But these, not second to thyself in name, 
" Decline a contest with my nobler fame. 
" Thou hast a right hand useful in the fight ; 
" But thought is wanting to defend our right. 
" Thou boastest valour with a mind unwise, 
" While long contingencies before me rise. — 
" Thou tightest valiantly. Atrides knows 
" From me the time of battle. Thou thy foes 



330 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

" By strength appallest, we by dauntless skill ; 
" And, as the master of the ship, whose will 
" Governs the vessel, him the oar that sways, 
" The leader, him that leader who obeys, 
" So, thee, do I surpass. In me my hand 
" Serves my thought's purpose. Hence I claim 

command. 
" But ye, oh chieftains, with these arms reward 
" Him, whose sagacity has prov'd your guard. 
" By many a sleepless night, and anxious morn, 
" And by my manhood in your service worn ; 
" By all the tedious years that I have thought 
" For my lov'd comrades, for my comrades 

fought ; 
" Oh chiefs, this prize I ask with fervent prayer, 
*« Worthy for you to give, for me to share ! — 
" Our toils are ended. I have banish'd hence 
" The Fates that menac'd in proud Troy's de- 
fence. 
" And having made it liable to fall 
e< I have laid prostrate Ilion's towering wall. 

" Oh, by our hopes, by Troy's devoted towers, 
" And by those gods no longer her's but our's; 
" By what remains where death must be defied, 
" If any bold attempt must yet be tried ; 



THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 331 

" If there be yet severer tests of skill, 

u The measure of the Trojan fates to fill; 

rt Give me these arms ! To me if ye give not, 

" Be ne'er Ulysses in their gift forgot ! 

" To that devote them !" and his finger shew'd 

Where the Palladium's fatal image stood. 

The admiring nobles by their verdict prove, 
That eloquence, where valour fails, can move ; 
And he, who oft confronted undismay'd, 
Alone, the rage of fire, and Hector's blade, 
Despondingly his disappointment bore : 
Anguish subdued him, unsubdued before ! 
He grasp'd the sword. " Ulysses," he exclaim'd, 
" This will not seek : this I may use unblam'd. 
" This I will turn against myself! The sword 
" That hath so many Phrygian bosoms gored, 
" Shall now be reeking with its master's blood; — 
u Lest Ajax save by Ajax be subdued." — 

E'en as he spake, his last wound he imprest, 
Burying the driven cutlass in his breast. 
Nor could his hand the griding blade expel ; 
Driven by the spouting blood, on earth it fell. 
The earth distain'd with Ajax's trickling gore, 
A purple blossom from its bosom bore, 



332 THE DEATH OF ACHILLES. 

Such as appear'd from the discolour'd ground, 
When Hyacinthus felt the fatal wound. 
The same inscription on the petals grow : 
Th' initials here, and there the type of woe. 



FINIS. 



J. M'Creery, Printer, 
Black-Horse-Court, London. 



